


A Queen for the King

by the_random_writer



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Absent Parents, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aristocracy, Betrayal, Big Brothers, Brother-Sister Relationships, Dating, Drug Use, Duty, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Fake Dating, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Secrets, Father-Daughter Relationship, Forgiveness, Growing Up, Half-Siblings, Idiots in Love, Kings & Queens, Little Sisters, M/M, Marriage, Mild Sexual Content, Miscommunication, Motorcycles, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, Politics, Responsibility, Revenge, Second Chances, Secret Relationship, Sexual Humor, Siblings, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 85
Words: 438,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: In a world not too different from ours, Eomer is about to turn thirty-four, and has been King of Rohan for almost eight years, but still isn't married, much to his sister's disgust.When his latest one night fling provokes Eowyn into issuing an ultimatum, Eomer accepts it's time to give up his bachelor ways and settle down.He's young, and rich, and good-looking, and a King. Finding a wife shouldn't be too difficult, should it?Modern setting, canon divergent, no magic, no war, no ring, elves are mortal, Aragorn never had to be Strider, Boromir never died, Sauron exists, but is a regular man.Ongoing longfic with lots of detail, lots of plot threads and lots of OCs. Not for anyone who wants a quick, typical fanfic hit that's only about their faves.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Éomer Éadig/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 855
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this mostly for myself, to get all this fictional detail out of my brain and down on paper. Others are more than welcome, but please read and respect the description and tags. If you're not a fan of AUs, canon divergence, lots of detail and lots of OCs, this isn't the story for you :)
> 
> This will be a very long and very detailed fic. I am basically writing down every single scene my brain comes up with. Which means the story will not always get to the point as well or as quickly as it should. Some chapters will not strictly be necessary. Some will waffle. Characters will talk more than they probably should. Some plot points may take an unrealistic amount of time to come to fruition. Saint-like patience will be required. You have been warned!
> 
> Canon characters other than Eomer and Eowyn who will eventually appear - Imrahil, Elphir, Lothiriel, Morwen, Aragorn, Arwen, Boromir, Faramir, Denethor, Legolas. But not until much later in the story, and only in a few chapters here or there - they won't be regular characters.

**Saturday April 11, 2020**

Solwen _hated_ writing letters.

Formal letters most of all. So many tedious sentences, full of pompous, meaningless words. And why in Bema's name was she even writing a letter at all? This was 2020, not 1920. Did nobody at the Meduseld Palace know what the hell the internet was? Surely, it would be more efficient to send this to them by e-mail instead?

And to think the illustrious House of Eorl claimed to be a modern, people's institution.

Modern. Right. As fucking if.

She scrolled to the top of the page to check the grammar and spelling again. Two hours now, she'd been working on this. So much time, and in the end, to say and ask for so little. What an absolute waste of a nice afternoon; she could have been out on her motorcycle instead.

Someone knocked on the library door.

"Come in," she called out.

The door opened just enough for her grandfather to stick his head in. "How's it coming?" he said.

"I think I've finally got the right wording. Was just about to write it all out." She opened a drawer to pull out the special, expensive pad of parchment—the one they kept for the fanciest letters, with her father's coat of arms printed in gold at the top of each page. It was the one part of the whole process she was actually looking forward to—writing on the luxury paper she'd been warned on pain of a well-kicked arse never to touch or draw on as a child.

"You want someone to give it a final check for you?" her grandfather said.

She beckoned him in. "Please, yes. It's getting to the point where I'm reading it, and all the words are just blending together."

Haradoc came to stand behind her, scanning the monitor over her shoulder, squinting until she dialled up the font. He didn't need long; for all the pomp and tedious words, the letter was short and to the point. He gave a quick nod. "I like it. Covers everything it needs to cover, says everything it needs to say." He patted her shoulder. "Nicely done."

"Aye, but have I _grovelled_ enough?"

"If you were anyone else, I'd probably say you need to grovel a wee bit more."

"Why not me?"

"Because you're a Hamelmark, sweet pea. We _never_ grovel."

"Not even to the King?" she asked, sure she knew the answer already.

His scornful snort confirmed her suspicions. "Especially not to the King. Got nothing against him, he seems like a very nice man, but I wouldn't grovel to him even at the point of a sword."

"You ask them nicely, I'm sure some of the Loyalists in the Hall would be happy to arrange that for you."

"Let the bastards come and try," he warned. "I'll put a hard Marcher boot up their soft arses for them."

Solwen couldn't help but grin. "Grandpa, it's moments like this that make me understand why you and granny never spent much time in Edoras even when the Hall was in session."

"Place is a bloody nest of vipers. And every time I say that, I'm quite sure I'm insulting vipers. Can't understand why you even want to live there again. I thought you'd had enough of it from when you had to go to that school."

Back to this well-worn topic again. "Because I work in banking, grandpa. And all the good banking jobs are in the City."

"We have banks in Isendale, you know."

"Not finance centre banks, we don't. It's all just branches and credit unions. Not really the kind of banking I do."

He puffed out a sigh, accepting the loss of the battle, if not the war. "Well, at least now, you'll only be a few hours away by car. Not away on the other side of the world."

"I was only down in Gondor, grandpa. Hardly the other side of the world."

He laid a weathered hand on her shoulder to squeeze it. "Might as well have been, for how rarely we got to see you."

She smiled up at him, giving the hand an affectionate pat. "Why don't you put the kettle on, make us some tea, let me write this stupid thing out?"

With a final squeeze, he made for the door. "I'll bring you up a cup when it's ready."

"No, don't do that," she said, remembering how hard the stairs were on his arthritic joints. "This won't take long. Give me a shout, I'll come down to grab it instead."

"Right you are."

Once he was gone, she turned to the bookshelf behind her, running her fingers along the books until she found the green and gold paperback she needed. She wasn't surprised to see the spine was barely creased. It was a useful book to have on hand, but in this family, not one that saw a lot of use.

_The Court of Rohan's Official Guide to Names, Titles and Forms of Address._

No point in spending two hours to craft the perfect grovelling letter if you fucked it all up in the opening line.

She cracked the book to the relevant page and laid it at the head of the desk. She pulled the pad of paper towards her, opened it, picked up her drip-proof, smudge-proof pen—the one good thing to come out of her time in Lasgalen—and ever-so-carefully started to write.

_To His Majesty, Eomer King._


	2. Chapter 2

**Monday April 13, 2020**

By the end of the second paragraph, Eowyn had read all she wanted to read.

This time, the insolent bastards had gone too far. It was one thing to criticize the monarchy as an institution; it was quite another thing altogether to criticize the monarch himself. And the comments about his personal life? The King was going to _love_ reading those.

She slammed her teacup down on her saucer, hard enough for some of her tea to gently slosh up over the side. She turned to her butler, forcing a smile. "Halmund, could you please call down to the kitchen and ask them to hold my breakfast for me?" She pressed her napkin to her lips, dropped it between her knife and fork and rose from her chair, smoothing the creases out of her skirt. "Something urgent has come up, and I need to have a word with the King."

Halmund dipped his head. "Of course, Your Highness. Will fifteen minutes suffice?"

"Why don't we make it thirty instead?" Eowyn countered, knowing the 'word' she wanted to have probably wouldn't be well received. She checked the clock, marking the time, glad her schedule was free until nine. "I'll be back here for ten past eight."

"Very good, ma'am. Thirty minutes it is. I'll have a fresh pot of Eorl Grey waiting for you."

She grabbed the paper, folded it up and stuffed it under her arm. "Thank you, Halmund." If only everyone was as reliable as her trusty retainer. "And make sure you take the time to have some breakfast yourself."

"Of course, ma'am." Halmund moved ahead to open and hold the door for her, giving another respectful nod as she passed.

Leaving her elegant morning room, Eowyn marched along the King's Hall towards the corner of the top floor that housed her brother's sprawling, ten-room apartment. As always, the ostentatious, portrait-lined hallway echoed with the sound of her heels clicking on the antique wood floor. She _loathed_ the palace's wooden floors, if only because they allowed everyone in the building to hear her coming and scurry away. And not just the Household staff—sometimes even the King as well. But at least he scurried in a majestic way.

If _she_ was Queen, she would rip out the four-hundred-year-old floors and put down modern, silent carpets instead. But she wasn't Queen, and Eomer—ever one for heritage and tradition (or simply too lazy to want to bother with change)—would smile fondly and remind her the floors were the work of Aldor the Great, whose craftsmen had fashioned the murky planks from the bludgeoned, bloody remains of seven thousand Mordorian shields.

Which was all well and good, except Aldor the Great had never had to go down on his knees to clean, repair and polish the floors he'd ordered his army of craftsmen to lay. Not that Eowyn herself had ever done that either, of course—she had her own small army of people to handle the palace's domestic tasks for her—but she supervised the actual cleaning. She knew the details the King could ignore—that the wood was thin, and very old, and could only be cleaned with a special chemical wash, which meant bringing in a team of shockingly expensive experts at least every other year.

Carpets would be _so_ much easier to take care of. Heritage and tradition be damned.

As she passed the portrait of Helm the Wise, she noticed the doors at the end of the hallway were closed—the heavy, carved, oversized doors that opened into the elegant room where Eomer greeted those lucky few guests who'd been invited to meet with him in private, instead of in a reception room downstairs. But, to her surprise, two of Eomer's guards were stationed outside. That arrangement was a signal, the message as clear as the massive green and white royal standard fluttering over the Golden Hall. The King was somewhere in his rooms (or the guards would be wherever he was), but didn't want to be disturbed. In theory, only three people in the whole building were allowed to disobey that command—the head of the King's household staff, the head of his security team and the most senior of his personal guards—but everyone knew, permission or not, Eowyn could (and would) as well.

She couldn't remember when she'd last seen both doors still closed with guards outside at such a late point in the day. It had just turned seven-forty, and her brother—a natural morning person, and a man whose every waking moment was heavily scheduled months in advance—was usually up and about by now. He was normally in the pool by six, dressed and having his breakfast by seven and starting on his duties by eight.

Perhaps, this morning, Eomer was sleeping late. Had he been out at a late-running function last night? As always, she'd scanned his diary at the start of the week, but she couldn't remember precisely what had been on each page.

The two guards were Vonnal and Fastmer, standing at relaxed parade rest at either side of the door, spines straight, chins up, hands clasped behind their backs, feet shoulder width apart, expressions blank, eyes fixed on some distant, invisible point. Neither man was wearing an obvious weapon, but Eowyn knew from experience that didn't mean they weren't armed. Their black trousers and forest green tunics with the crowned horse symbol on the chest were absolutely immaculate, with not so much as a thread out of place.

Quite right, too. One didn't earn the right to protect the monarch's person in that monarch's own home by not knowing how to wear one's uniform correctly.

As she approached, both men gave her a quick from-the-neck bow.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she said, coming to a non-threatening halt a couple of metres away. "I was hoping to have a moment of the King's time." She didn't ask if she could see him, or why the apartment doors were still closed. As always, she simply told the guards what she needed, and waited for them to figure it out.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, ma'am," Fastmer, the more senior of the two men said, in the politest and most respectful of tones. "His Majesty has given strict orders he's not to be disturbed before nine."

"And why is that?" Eowyn asked, trying to decide if she wanted to be intrigued or alarmed. He might be a King, but Eomer usually didn't like to give orders, strict or otherwise, preferring to bring people round to his way of thinking with gentle 'recommendations' instead. If he'd actually given an order this morning, either her brother was up to something, or some kind of trouble was on the cards.

Fastmer frowned and made a sound that was almost a sigh. "The King is... indisposed, Your Highness."

Alarm elbowed intrigue aside. "Is His Majesty unwell?" she asked. That could be a serious problem, for Eomer's schedule, if nothing else.

Fastmer made the not-a-sigh sound again.

Bema save her; she really didn't have time for this. "Fastmer, the King is my older brother, and in case you haven't noticed, I handle a number of royal duties for him. If something is wrong, I need to know. You won't be committing treason, or violating the Official Secrets Act. So, whatever it is, toughen up and spit it out."

"Your Highness, His Majesty is entertaining," Fastmer calmly told her, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"That's ridiculous. Who in their right mind entertains at seven-forty in the—" Eowyn sighed and squeezed her eyes shut, figuring out what Fastmer meant.

For the love of Bema, not _again._

In that moment, she wondered if what she'd just read in The Times might not be as insolent as it seemed…

"I see," she said. "And has His Majesty given any indication of how much longer he might be _entertaining_ for?" Surely, not all the way until nine? That was an hour and twenty minutes from now. How much 'entertaining' could one normal man manage?

"No, Your Highness, I'm afraid he hasn't," Fastmer said. "Would you like me to let him know you called?"

No, she bloody well would not. She was a Daughter of the House of Eorl, First Princess of the Blood, and thanks to her older brother's untroubled approach to his private affairs, still heiress presumptive to the Rohanese throne. And she wasn't accustomed to being kept waiting, especially not in the palace she ran. She had an important matter to discuss with the King, and she wanted to discuss it _now._

Before Fastmer or Vonnal could stop her, she strode to the door to press her right thumb to a biometric security panel. The scanning light ran over her thumb, the panel changed from red to green, the ten-point lock inside the massive door clicked. She pushed the door in to march through the reception room at the other side, heading for the door in the far right corner which took her into a massive, elegant sitting space. Her target was another door at the far side of that room—the door that led to the most private part of her brother's apartment.

Fastmer strode ahead to block her, holding up a restraining hand. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but we _cannot_ allow you to go through that door." His voice was calm, but his tone was firm, and his pale blue eyes were as cold and hard as dwarven steel. "You're a member of the Royal House, and the King's sister, but my first duty is to the King. He gave me an order I fully intend to obey. Please don't force me to do something I'm sure we'll both regret later."

She heard and felt Vonnal fall in behind her.

"Fastmer, I have no intention of going through the door," she said. She'd accidentally walked in on Eomer naked once, a few years ago, had absolutely no desire to ever see him naked again. "I just need to give the King a message." She pushed past Fastmer to bang on the heavy door with her fist. "Eomer!" she hollered out. "Whatever pretty new toy you're playing with in there, put it down and get out of bed!" She checked her watch. "It's seven-forty, and we need to talk!"


	3. Chapter 3

In his bedroom, Eomer sighed.

He was two rooms and thirty metres away, behind an armoured, reinforced, assault-resistant, bullet-proof door, and he could _still_ hear Eowyn shouting. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but he could certainly sense what mood she was in. Not a good one, that was for sure. He put his plans for the next hour aside—there was no time for a pleasant, pre-breakfast 'breakfast' with his attractive lady friend now.

A pity. He'd been planning to serve her at least two courses…

He threw off the covers, swung his feet out onto the floor and reached out to grab some trousers, a shirt and his robe from the chair. He pulled them on and walked to the other side of the bed, pleased to see his lovely companion was coming awake.

She stretched her arms above her head, arching her covered body towards him. "Good morning, Your Majesty," she murmured with a coy smile.

"Good morning, Miss Freebourn," Eomer said. He leaned in to press a kiss to her lips, pulse quickening as he remembered what those lips had done to him only a few hours before. She grabbed his robe, pulling him in, trying to deepen the embrace, then snaked her fingers under his belt to rest them on the band of his trousers, silently letting him know she was up for another round if he was.

Parts of his body began to wake up. Parts he couldn't allow to wake up, not if he was about to have a tense discussion with his sister. Although, having a tense discussion with his sister would certainly put the parts back to sleep. Reluctantly, he pulled away, taking the young lady's hand to gently set it back on the bed. "Duty calls, I'm afraid. A monarch's work is never done."

"Are you sure the duty can't wait?" Biting her lip, she dropped her chin to her chest and looked up at him from under her voluminous lashes. With one smooth motion, she threw off the covers. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here and _take care of me_ again instead?"

Blessed Valar. So much beautiful, naked, willing flesh.

Yes, he absolutely would prefer to stay and 'take care of her' again. Perhaps, this time, on his sitting room rug, or maybe on his coffee table…

He only needed twenty minutes. Ten, if he put his mind to it. Surely Eowyn's problem could wait that long?

As if hearing his question, Eowyn pounded on the door again, hard enough to make some ornaments on a side table rattle. And she was _two rooms_ away. Bema only knew what her mood was doing to Fastmer's nerves—the poor man was probably ready to pull out his hidden weapon and shoot her.

"I mean it, Eomer!" Eowyn's muffled voice shouted. "I'm giving you twenty seconds to tidy up and make yourself decent, then I'm coming in!"

She absolutely would as well. Rule Number One in the Meduseld Palace—nobody entered the King's apartments without his explicit consent unless the building was burning down or under attack. Rule Number Two—The Princess Royal can (and will) ignore all the rules.

Sadly, as skilled in the bedroom arts as he was, not even he could pleasure a woman and make himself presentable in a mere twenty seconds. Ninety, maybe. Twenty, never. It would be a crime against the woman in question to even try.

Sighing, he pulled the covers back into place, hiding the stunningly beautiful body, hoping that putting it out of his sight would also put it out of his mind. "Miss Freebourn, please believe me when I say, I'd like nothing more than to stay here with you for another hour." He stepped away, securing his robe, ordering his unruly body parts to behave. There was no time to have those thoughts now. Now, he needed to be The King.

He pressed a summoning button beside the bed. "A woman will be here to help you shortly," he told his guest. "Her name is Colwenna. She'll see you out, make sure you get home safely."

He strode into his sitting room, pulling the doors to the bedroom over behind him, all thoughts of pleasant 'first breakfasts' now gone. From there, he made his way to the massive door that separated his inner suite from the semi-public rooms outside. He jumped as Eowyn hammered again. Was this how the eponymous king had felt at the Battle of Helm's Deep, when the Dunlending horde had pinned him behind the inner defenses? Taking a strengthening breath, he held out his thumb to unlock the door.

Assuming his most brotherly smile, he turned the handle and pulled the door in, revealing the lovely but glowering face of Her Royal Highness, The Princess Royal. Her hair was styled in a loose chignon bun, and she was dressed from head to toe in white—a simple, classic, high-collared shirt tucked into a pleated full skirt, paired with the usual towering heels and string of antique Belfalasian pearls. The colour suited her complexion, but just once, he would like to see her in something more vibrant instead. Hell, even beige would make a nice change.

"Good morning," he said, deliberately keeping his tone as chirpy and bright as he could, knowing how much she hated that he was more of a morning person than her.

Scowling, she stormed past him into the room.

"Come in, please." He gestured at the most comfortable of the three couches in his private sitting space—the one she usually claimed when she came for a visit. "Have a seat, make yourself at home." He aimed a nod at Fastmer, hovering in the outer room, instructing his guard to relax and stand down. Fastmer returned the nod and headed for the main door, no doubt to resume his usual sentry position. Smiling again, Eomer turned back to his guest. "So, how has your morning been so far? Did you sleep well?" he asked.

Eowyn was having none of it. "Eomer, we need to talk."

His stomach growled, reminding him the only thing he needed to do right now was eat. Sex was an amazing way to work up an appetite, it seemed. Or, at least, the way he did it was; he couldn't speak for other, lesser men. "Have you had your breakfast yet?" he asked.

Eowyn shook her head. "I asked the kitchen to hold mine for me. I'll have it back in my room when we're done."

Done with what, was the critical question…

He went to his desk to press a button on the phone panel.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," an elderly masculine voice on the other end said.

"Good morning, Bregdan. Could you please bring me my usual breakfast whenever you're ready?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. Would you care for a cooked or a cold breakfast today?"

Good question. After the 'workout' he'd just put in, did he want cereal and fruit, or meat? "We'll go with cooked today, I think." Some protein to help repair his overworked muscles.

"Very good, Your Majesty."

"Oh, and Bregdan?"

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"The kitchen is apparently holding Her Royal Highness's breakfast for her, could you ask them to finish it up and deliver it to my room with mine? She's going to dine with me this morning." And he wasn't doing that just to be nice. Eowyn's temper was sharper when she was hungry, so if he fed her first, he might be able to win whatever fight she'd come here to pick. And she'd definitely come here to pick a fight—of that, he was absolutely sure. The next ten minutes would tell him why and what for.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Thank you, Bregdan."

The line clicked and went dead.

Eowyn crossed her arms and jerked her chin at his bedroom door. "Go on, then. Who is she?"

Eru and all the Valar save him. Barely dawn, and she already knew.

"Who is who?" Eomer said, trying his most innocent tone.

She blessed him with another scowl. "Don't lie to me, Eomer. You've had a woman in there all night, haven't you?"

The way she said it, she made 'woman' sound like 'axe murderer' or 'serial killer'…

"Why on earth would you ever think that?" As he spoke, he cast his eyes around the room, making sure none of the lovely Miss Freebourn's clothes were scattered on a chair or the floor. Thankfully, his scan came up clean—he must have stripped her out of them in the bedroom instead.

"Fastmer told me you were entertaining. I'm not stupid. I know exactly what that means. You weren't having the Prime Minister in for breakfast cakes and coffee."

Some new 'advice' might be on the cards for his guards, about what to share with his sister, and when.

"And don't think you can deal with these incidents by telling your guards to feed me lies," Eowyn warned, as always, thinking at least one move ahead. There was a reason he could never beat her at chess. "You know I have eyes and ears everywhere in this palace. It might take me a bit more time to dig out the truth, but in the end, I'll still find out what you're doing."

Eomer cancelled the new advice. Keeping things from Eowyn would only put her in one of her moods, and Eowyn in one of her moods made everyone in the palace nervous, to the extent they heard her coming and ran to hide wherever they could. Only last week, he himself had briefly considered rushing into a storage closet, just to stay out of her way.

How he wished he had a closet to hide in now. It wasn't even eight o'clock, he hadn't even had his first cup of coffee yet, and he was already getting the third degree. Him, the King, of all people. And from his 'baby' sister, no less. But Eowyn was right about one thing—there _was_ no point in trying to hide things from her. She _did_ have eyes and ears everywhere in the palace. Even Algrin—the head of the palace security team—didn't know as much as she knew.

Time to confess to his sins. "You're right. I did have a woman with me all night. But before you get your underwear in a twist, you should know, she's already on her way out, and she won't cause me any trouble with the press." Gwenna Freebourn probably valued her privacy as much as he did.

"How many people knew she was here?"

"Apart from me, only five. None of whom will ever acknowledge the young lady even exists, much less that she set ever foot in the palace." He gave her a reassuring smile. "It's fine, Wynna, trust me."

"How did you even get her onto this floor without alerting every guard between here and the main gate?"

"We came in through the Sovereign's Door."

She thrashed her fists and made a face. "Eomer, The Door's supposed to be a secret. It's supposed to be a safe way out for you if the palace ever comes under attack. Not a safe way in for you and your latest assignation."

"When was the last time the palace came under attack?"

"That's not the point," she stiffly said. "It's part of the internal security system. You shouldn't use it for personal reasons, and you certainly shouldn't allow unauthorized civilians to see it."

"I could always bring them in with a blindfold on."

"Or, here's a better idea."

"What?" Surely, she wasn't about to suggest he use a black bag instead?

"You could always not bring them into the palace at all."

He wrinkled his nose. "Where the hell is the fun in that?"

"This is the Meduseld Palace, Eomer. The official residence of the Kings and Queens of Rohan. Not some sleazy, by-the-hour hotel."

He flashed his brows at her. "It took more than an hour. Several in fact."

Her answer was a glare so intense, it would put an ultraviolet irradiation machine to shame.

"Sorry. That was inappropriate," he said.

"Everything about what you did last night is inappropriate. I'm not sure I even know where to start." She threw up her hands. "What in Bema's name were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I'm only human," Eomer shot back. As Prince Legolas kept reminding him. "And that I'm not going to live like a monk."

"Nobody expects you to live like a monk. But we _do_ expect you to be responsible."

"How am I not being responsible?"

"Did you miss the part where you just admitted to bringing a civilian through one of the most secret parts of the palace?"

He blew out a huff. "Okay, apart from that."

"Did she go through a full security check before you allowed her into the building?"

"Well, of course not, no, but—"

The infamous warning finger came out—the finger most of the members of staff lived in fear of ever seeing. "No buts, Eomer. You know the rules. Nobody, not even the King's _special friend_ , sets foot on the private floor of the palace until they've been thoroughly vetted."

Oh, he'd 'thoroughly vetted' the young lady all right. From at least four different positions—he'd enjoyed the one where she'd put her feet up over his shoulders the most…

"So next time, I should go somewhere else?" he said. "Maybe rent the Rohan Suite at the Citadel Ritz instead?" He'd been there once; as he recalled, he and his 'assignation' that night had put the jacuzzi bath to good use. The things one could do with a sponge and a shower attachment. "We've given them a lot of business over the years. I'm sure they'd be happy to cut me a deal."

"Don't be an idiot," Eowyn snapped. "We have no security control at all at the Ritz. That's even more dangerous than you bringing them here."

He threw up his hands. "Then, what the hell do you want me to do? Stay at home and slowly go blind?"

"There are procedures for this kind of thing!"

"I don't want a procedure, Wynna. I'm trying to _have sex_ , not arrange to have my appendix removed! I want to go out, meet a beautiful woman, bring her home, get her naked and take her to bed. Is that really so hard for you to understand?"

"And I want you to get married," she shouted, throwing her folded-up newspaper at him; it bounced off his chest and fell to the floor. "You wouldn't need to go out and meet these women at all if you had a wife to come home to instead! Is that really so hard for _you_ to understand?"

And there it was—the same old troubling problem, rearing its troubling head again. When was he going to come to his senses, give up his peripatetic bachelor life, settle down and do the right thing? Except, he still wasn't sure it was the right thing. It certainly wasn't a guarantee of constancy, as Eowyn seemed to think.

"It didn't work that way for the Earl of Strone," Eomer pointed out, bending over to pick up the paper. "He just got married three months ago, and he has more mistresses now, not less."

"Fewer," Eowyn corrected. "And you know as well as I do that's because he only married his wife for her money. It was a business arrangement they both went into with their eyes open. He wanted her fortune, she wanted his title. He never had _any_ intention of being faithful to her. Or she to him."

He threw the paper onto the couch. "Maybe I should try that."

Eowyn frowned. "Try what?"

"A mutually beneficial business arrangement. Find myself a pretty young thing with a nice inheritance in her back pocket, marry her, tell her she's free to do whatever she wants as long as she has my children and plays her part well, I leave her to get on with her life, she leaves me to get on with mine, we meet up for all the important social functions, smile and wave, pretend to be cloyingly in love with each other." It sounded utterly soul destroying, but he couldn't say for sure it wouldn't be what he ended up doing—it was more or less what had happened to various other family members.

"We both know that's not what you want," Eowyn said.

"Of course it isn't. But I'm not having a lot of luck finding what I _do_ want, am I?" Certainly not helped by the fact he wasn't even sure what he wanted. Someone who would make a good Queen, or someone who would make a good wife? Those qualities didn't always overlap, and it seemed too much to hope for both. And if he had to choose, should he put his own needs or the kingdom's needs first?

Eowyn had a different objection. "How can you expect to find something when you're not even looking for it?"

"I _am_ looking."

"Really? When?"

"All the bloody time!"

"Give me an example." She wielded the dreaded finger again. "Tell me about one thing you've done in the last month, just one, that's helped you make any progress with getting married."

One occasion came to mind. "Does dinner with the Countess of Camelor count?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because she's _married,_ Eomer," Eowyn said, slowly, as if she was explaining a problem to a dull-witted child. "To _another man_."

"But she's getting divorced."

"That doesn't help." She scrunched her nose. "And you told me that was a business dinner. To discuss your potential role in the charity she's setting up."

In his defense, it had started as a business dinner…

"So, is that all you have?" she asked. "A dinner with a not-quite-married woman?"

He racked his brain, trying to think of something that wasn't simply more 'entertaining', but came up empty on all counts.

Dammit. He hated how she was always right.

"That's what I thought," she said, tightly crossing her arms. "You complain about how hard it is to give the kingdom a Queen, but you're barely lifting a finger to find one."

"It's not exactly easy, okay?"

"What on earth's so hard about it? You're the _King,_ for Bema's sake. Only the most eligible bachelor in the whole country. Every social function you go to is packed to the rafters with single women, all literally falling over themselves trying to catch your attention."

"And maybe that's the whole damn problem," he shouted, feeling his temper beginning to fray. "So many of the women I meet, they're all so busy trying to impress me, I can't have a normal conversation with any of them. It's like they're all trying to interview for a job I haven't even published the ad for!"

Sighing, she sank onto her couch. "Yes, I can see how that would be difficult for you," she quietly admitted.

"Thank you."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, massaging the sides of her head. "You're probably not going to like me saying this, but have you considered a more old-fashioned approach?"

Temper subsiding, he flopped onto one of the other couches. "That depends. What is a more old-fashioned approach?"

"What men in the royal family before our parents' generation did."

"Which was?"

Sitting back, she took a deep breath. "They would have someone do some research for them, then come up with a list of names."

"Of what?"

"Of all the unmarried, Landed, Rohanese women of the right temperament and age."

"Temperament and age?" Eomer repeated. "I'm sorry, was this to make a list of women, or horses?"

"Stow the attitude, Your Majesty. You know _exactly_ what I mean. Being Queen is a lot of work. It's not a role just any woman can do. You have to be calm, and patient, and strong, mentally and physically. Think about what granna's like. They don't call her the Steelsheen for nothing."

"I thought people called her that because her hair was so glossy."

"And because she can break you in half just by looking at you the wrong way."

That was certainly where the nickname applied—as a child, he'd been on the receiving end of that spine-snapping look more times than he cared to remember. Hell, as a fully grown adult as well. "I'm not doing that," he said. "I might not be the most enlightened man in the world, but I'm enlightened enough to realize women are people, not things to be researched and scored. There's a reason it's an old-fashioned approach. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it."

Someone knocked on the sitting room door.

"Come in," Eomer called out.

The door swung open, revealing Bregdan and Halmund, each pushing a serving trolley stacked with various plates and pots.

Finally, their breakfast was here.

Smiling, Eowyn stood to wave the men in. "Thank you, gentlemen. Come in, please. We'll have it in the King's morning room, I think."

Ten minutes later, they were sitting at the table for two by the window, watching the bees bumble from flower to flower in the colourful planters on the terrace outside, and Halmund and Bregdan had retreated, having delivered what seemed to Eomer like a small mountain of food.

"Think I need to have a word with Bregdan," he said, trying to decide which side of his mountain to tackle first. "Remind him I'm not in my teens anymore." Not necessarily a problem—he couldn't have done what he'd done last night if he was.

"He can't help it. He's looked after you since you were twelve. In his mind, you're still a growing boy."

"He keeps feeding me like this, the only way I'll grow is out."

"I'm sure you'll find a creative way to keep the weight off."

Her and her bloody snark...

He picked up the short, stubby pot to pour her a cup of her tea, then the tall, slender pot to pour himself a cup of his coffee.

Eowyn sighed—a sure-fire sign the sisterly lecture was about to resume. "Eomer, I'm not trying to nag—"

Eomer snorted into his coffee.

"—but you're almost thirty-four years old."

"Believe it or not, a fact of which I am well aware." It felt like only yesterday he'd celebrated his thirtieth birthday—where the hell had the last four years gone?

"You've been King now for almost eight years, and you still don't have an heir."

"Course I do. You're my heir."

"But only your heiress presumptive," she pointed out. "What the country really needs is an heir or heiress apparent."

A role only a son or daughter born in lawful wedlock could fill. "It's not really that much of a burden, though, is it? Being my heiress presumptive?"

Her fork clattered onto her plate; that was apparently the wrong question to ask. "It's not about how much of a burden it is, Eomer. It's about you keeping up your end of the deal," she said in a calm but cold voice. "You remember what we talked about, the morning after your coronation?"

"More or less, yes."

"I agreed to take on the duties that usually fall to the Queen Consort until you were safely married," she said, happy to give him a refresher. "And I've kept my end of the deal. Scrupulously. Not a day of your reign has gone by when I have not done exactly what you need me to do, or been exactly who you need me to do be." She held up her hand to count items off on her fingers. "I have organized banquets, I have received ambassadors, I have toured hospitals, I have opened schools, I have attended ballet premieres, and mother of Varda, you know how much I loathe ballet—"

"Could have been worse," he interjected. "At least I've never asked you to go to the opera premieres as well." A fate he would never wish on his deadliest foe, never mind his younger sister.

"I have smiled, I have waved, I have cut ribbons, I have unveiled plaques," Eowyn continued. "I have given speeches, I have listened to speeches, I have pretended to be pleased to meet people I've never heard of and don't even know, and then I have smiled and waved and smiled some more, until I feel like my face is going to fall off."

"You _do_ have a lovely smile."

"I have played my part to perfection," she said, glaring at him as she picked up her fork. "I just wish I could say the same thing about you." She stabbed her fork through a pineapple chunk, no doubt wishing it was his face.

"You make it sound as if I'm neglecting my duties."

Eowyn shook her head. "In all but one sense, Your Majesty, you're doing a wonderful job."

A compliment of a sorts—he would have to ask Fenbrand to mark that down in his diary for him. "That one sense being the marriage and children department, of course."

"I know you don't like to talk about it, because it's your personal life, and you think it should be a private matter."

"It bloody well is a private matter."

"Except, it isn't. You're the _King,_ Eomer, not some ordinary Rohanese man. And our monarchy is hereditary, not elective. Which means, sooner or later, you have to get married. You're the one man in the whole country for whom staying single simply isn't an option." She paused to spoon some yoghurt onto her fruit. "Unfortunately, marriage isn't the kind of problem that fixes itself of its own accord when nobody's looking. You can't just stick your head in the sand and hope the succession sorts itself out."

"Wynna, I promise, I'm not sticking my head in the sand. I just…" He sighed and set down his coffee to massage his brows. Did she know how difficult this topic was for him? How the mere mention of the word 'marriage' made him want to go back to bed and stick his head in under the covers? Would she stop talking about it if she did? "I know it's a problem I have to solve. And I will solve it, I promise. I'm just not really sure how."

"Do you actually want to solve it?"

"Of course I do, yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Why on earth would I not be sure?"

"Because you don't behave like a man who wants to get married. You behave like a man whose main ambition in life is to carve as many notches into his bedpost as he can."

"That's a little harsh, don't you think?"

She wagged her spoon at him. "Out of all the women you've _entertained_ this year, how many of them have you seen more than once?"

Only one, that he could think of, but Seorsa was more of a 'friend with benefits' thing, so not the most convincing defense. "I'm willing to admit you make the tiniest of points. But yes, I'm sure. I do want to get married. And have a family. And not just because I'm the King."

"But?"

"But whoever I marry, she has to be the right choice. And not just for me. For the whole country as well." And as if that wasn't stressful enough, she would have to be the right choice on the first try. Divorce was fairly common now, but it wouldn't be an option for him. The men of the House of Eorl were still expected to stick with their spouses through hell or high water.

"And in all the years you've been on the throne, you've never met a single woman, not one, Rohanese or otherwise, who could satisfy both requirements?"

"You mean, apart from everyone's favourite Dol Amrothian princess?"

Eowyn sighed. "Apart from Lothiriel, yes. I'm not counting her. I'll admit she would have made a good queen, she certainly had the right upbringing for it, but I'm not sure she would have made you happy. I think you would have been living at opposite ends of the floor by the end of the first year."

"I'm thinking by the end of the first month myself."

"Yes, well, I'm a more forgiving person than you are."

Forgiving. Hmm. That was an interesting way to put it. "Well, apart from Lothiriel, there's been three."

"Three?"

He remembered them all, so counted them off on his fingers. "One didn't want to be Queen. There was one granna refused to consider because her father was involved in some kind of scandal back in the eighties, and one who tried to blab everything to the press just as I was about to make our relationship something more formal." That last one had hurt most of all—a betrayal of personal trust for nothing more than a fat wad of cash and her face on a glossy magazine cover. At least the interview she'd tried to sell had never actually come out—Algrin's people had seen to that.

"I had no idea."

"Remember that the next time you nag at me for not trying."

"I don't nag. And to be honest, you aren't trying."

"I am trying. Just not as much as I used to, okay?" He stabbed a piece of sausage. "I've learned the hard and painful way it's usually not worth the effort, because something always goes wrong." Someone let him down, or lied to him, or told him it wasn't him, it was them…

"The one who didn't want to be Queen, is she still single?"

"Nope."

"What about the one granna didn't approve of? Because if there's still a chance there, I can deal with granna for you."

His sister taking on his grandmother—talk about an immovable object meeting an irresistible force? If it ever happened, he wanted a front row seat. With popcorn and opera glasses. "She's married now as well." He knew that for sure; he'd been a guest at the wedding.

"So, we're starting completely from scratch?"

_"We?"_

"Yes, Eomer. _We._ You haven't been able to solve this problem yourself, so it's high time some other people stepped in to help you solve it."

"Like who?"

Eowyn rolled her eyes. "Like me, for starters?"

"But you're my sister."

"So?"

"Isn't that a little… you know… _pathetic?_ To be a thirty-three-year-old man, and have your twenty-nine-year-old sister trying to figure out your love life for you?"

"Is it more or less pathetic than still carving notches into your bedpost when you're forty?"

Sadly, she made a good point. "Okay, but you're also a woman."

"Am I really?" she said in a desert-dry tone.

"And I'm not sure I want to discuss some of the, um"—what diplomatic word to use "the particulars with you."

"Particulars?" she repeated. "What on earth does that mean?"

"The particulars. You know…" He made a gesture with his hand.

"You mean the sex part?"

He felt his ears burn. "The physical aspects of a relationship, yes." As much as he relied upon her, as close as the two of them were, he drew the line at talking to her about what he liked to do with women in bed.

"So, would you rather discuss these _particulars_ with a man?"

He would rather not discuss them at all, with anybody, male or female, but that wasn't going to be an option, it seemed. "Yes."

"I guess that means you won't discuss them with Colwenna, either."

He shook his head. "Also a woman, and old enough to be my mother." Colwenna knew better than anyone when he brought a woman home for the night—it was always her he called to assist with the 'clean up' in the morning—but that didn't mean he wanted to discuss the actual activities with her. The mere thought made him want to curl up under the table and cry.

"Fenbrand?" Eowyn suggested.

Eomer winced and squeezed his eyes shut. "Bema, no, that's even worse."

"He _is_ a man."

"But he's also my Senior Private Secretary. More of an employee than a friend. I'm not sure it would be appropriate."

"You talk to him about other personal matters," she pointed out.

"But never about relationship stuff. And you know how strait-laced Fenbrand is. He's so respectful of the monarchy, it probably hasn't occurred to him that I even have sex." He snickered as he lifted his coffee. "He probably thinks we reproduce through binary fission." And wouldn't that be a simple solution—lop off an arm or a leg, wait a few days, and hey presto, an instant, legitimate, functioning heir.

"What about Elfhelm, then?" she asked. "He's been your best friend since you were twelve. Surely, you can talk to him?"

"I already do." Whenever he 'entertained', Elfhelm got the rundown of the young lady's talents. "But he's not as much help as you might think."

"Why on earth not?"

"Wynna, you _do_ remember, Elfhelm likes guys?"

Eowyn wrinkled her nose at him. "Well, of course I do. But just because he likes men and you like women doesn't mean he can't help you with your love life. I mean, the technical details may be different, but the initial process must be the same, yes? Isn't it just boy tries to meet boy instead of boy tries to meet girl?"

"It might be, but there's one other thing you've forgotten."

"What' that?"

"Elfhelm's even more useless at relationships than I am."

She heaved a suffering sigh. "So, who would you prefer to talk to then? Which sensible, smart, experienced man would you call right now if you needed some advice about wooing a woman?"

"Honestly?"

"No, Eomer. I want you to tell me another fat lie."

So much for the idea that feeding her would make her nicer…

"If I needed some advice right now, Aragorn would be my first choice."

Eowyn choked on her tea. "You would call the King of Gondor to ask him for _dating advice_?"

"I don't see why not. He's a King as well, remember?" He scooped some butter out of the dish to spread it over his toast. "And even more of a King than me, when you think about it. If anyone knows what kind of problems I'm facing, it's him."

She claimed a slice of toast for herself. "And he's certainly qualified to give you advice. Seeing as how he's an extremely happily married man."

"With an extremely beautiful wife." In Eomer's opinion, perhaps the most beautiful woman in the whole world.

Eowyn's knife paused over the butter. "Eomer, please tell me you've never told Aragorn that to his face."

"Course I bloody well haven't. He's our main ally, for Bema's sake. And a good friend. I'm not about to put him in a position where he thinks I've got the hots for his other half."

 _"Do_ you have the hots for his other half?"

"Not at all. I mean, like I said, she's extremely attractive, but she's also the Queen of Gondor. That's as untouchable as a woman gets."

"So, you just put her up on a pedestal, and quietly worship her from afar?"

Eomer grinned as he bit through his toast, hoping his cheeks didn't look as warm as they felt. "Something like that, yes."

"To be honest, if you told other people what you just told me, it's not even Aragon who would be offended."

He sighed. "Arwen's father, right." He'd only met Lord Elrond once, back at Arwen and Aragorn's wedding, couldn't say he'd enjoyed the experience at all. He'd come away from their brief conversation feeling like he'd just had a meeting with an auditor from the Rivendell Revenue Service.

"You know how protective he is of Arwen." She leaned forward over the table to whisper, "The things she told me during their visit with the girls last year, about how long Elrond made Aragorn wait, and what conditions he made him meet before he would give consent for the marriage?" Eowyn shuddered. "If I had to have a father-in-law like that, I think I'd just stay single instead."

That raised a question he was dying to ask—never mind him; when was _Eowyn_ going to get married? She'd dated on and off, but nothing serious had ever come of it. And even if she did meet someone she wanted to marry, he was pretty sure she would still wait for him to get married first, just to make sure he actually did. "What you get for falling in love with an elf. Pain in the goddamn ass, the whole goddamn lot of them."

She sighed. "Will you ever not be angry at them?"

"Who, the elves?"

She nodded. "It's been almost eight years since Grima vanished. Don't you think it's time to let go and move on?"

"I don't _want_ to let go and move on."

"I know you don't," she said softly, already trying to placate him.

"I _like_ being angry at them."

"Eomer…"

"And if they don't enjoy me being angry at them, there's an easy solution." He could feel his temper rising again, as it always did when this topic came up. "They can do what I bloody well asked them to do eight years ago, help me find Grima and our missing money."

"You know they're never going to do that."

"Then, I guess I'm never going to move on, am I?"

"It's not productive."

"Fuck being productive." He sounded like a petulant child, but he didn't care. "As long as I'm King, except for Queen Arwen and a few others who didn't turn their backs on us when we asked them for help, none of them are welcome here. Especially not Prince Legolas. Or his father." Or even Lady Galadriel, for that matter. She'd promised to do what she could, but in the end, her pretty words hadn't counted for much—she'd been just as unhelpful as her Lasgalene neighbours.

A smile played on Eowyn's lips. "I assume that means you won't be looking for an elvish wife?"

"What's that phrase you use again? To indicate something's never going to happen?"

"When the horses grow horns."

He wagged his toast at her. "That one, yes. You ever find one of them in the royal stables, that's when I'll consider marrying an elvish woman."

"So, what else?" Eowyn asked.

"What else what?"

She rolled her eyes again. "What else do you want in a wife? Apart from not elvish, that is?"

"I thought I wasn't going to discuss this with you."

"We can talk about the general stuff. I promise I won't ask about the particulars."

He chewed the last of his toast. "Someone smart, and caring, and kind. Someone I'll respect and like." He wasn't sure he should mention love. In a public marriage, as his would be, enacted for the monarchy's good as much as his own, that might be an ask too far. A firm friendship might be as much as he could expect.

"Beautiful as well, I assume?"

"Would be nice, obviously, but if I had to choose, I'd rather have kind. Don't care how beautiful a woman is if she's cruel."

"And how rich does she have to be? Is money an issue?"

This was a much easier answer. "Would be nice if she had _some_ money, I think, to give her some financial independence, but no, money isn't an issue. We're not as rich as we used to be, but we still have more than enough to keep us going."

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me how much 'more than enough' is?"

"You know I can't talk about that." Which wasn't strictly true—it was more of a custom than an unbreakable rule, that only the King could know how much the House of Eorl had in the bank—but one he was quite happy to follow. It wasn't that he wanted to keep things from her, he just didn't want her to be involved, because he knew if she got involved, she would worry, and fuss, and pester the people in the financial team, trying to make sure everything was being done 'correctly'.

"As long as you're not using that as an excuse to hide things from me."

"I'm not hiding anything from you, I promise." Except, maybe, how much his last motorcycle had cost. "We're plenty wealthy. Just nowhere near as wealthy as we were before Grima got his hooks in."

She pushed some fruit around her plate. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me? How much we're worth, I mean?"

"Yes, Wynna. I'm sure."

"It must be a reasonable amount, if it includes the royal residences," she mused.

This was always how she started, with harmless, speculative questions, then, before you knew it, you were somehow telling her everything she wanted to know. Oh, and your deepest, darkest fears and secrets as well.

"Those aren't liquid assets," he pointed out. "I can't sell any of them. I'm holding them all in trust for the nation."

"And you won't tell me how much cash we have in the bank?"

"No."

"Not even a hint?"

_"No."_

"Are we at least in double figures?"

It couldn't do any harm to tell her that, surely? "Yes."

"Low or high?"

No, apparently, it could. "I'm not saying another word on the matter. All you need to know is, our money situation is fine."

She sighed, accepting the loss of the battle, if not the war. "Then, we have some work to do, I think."

"What kind of work?"

"The wife-hunting kind."

"You make it sound as if you're going to chase some poor girl into Fangorn Forest and shoot her."

She actually giggled—a rare and pleasant sound. "No shooting, I promise. Hunting on paper only."

"I'm not sure how I feel about this," Eomer said.

"About what?"

"About letting you help me with my love life. It's a little bit humiliating. I should be able to deal with it myself."

"Except, your idea of dealing with it yourself is apparently to bring home a different woman every night."

"Not _every_ night."

"How many have there been this year?"

"I'm not sure. I'd have to check," he lied.

" _Five_ , Eomer. It's the thirteenth of April, and including the one last night, there have been five special guests this year already."

How the fuck was she so well informed? He was going to finish his breakfast, then go and ask Fastmer to scan his bedroom for bugs. And maybe even his sitting room as well. "That many? Really?"

"Yes, Eomer. Really."

"Who would have thought. I had no idea."

Her response was another sterilization-level glare.

"Seriously, though," he said, trying not to grin, lest he provoke her wrath even further. "I appreciate the offer of help, but I think I'd prefer to deal with this on my own."

"But will you? Deal with it, I mean?"

"As soon as I can find some time, yes." And as soon as he figured out what 'dealing with it' actually meant.

"You mean the way you found some time last night?"

Mother of Valar. Did the snarkiness come from their father or mother, he wondered? "There was a window of opportunity, and it was safe and simple, so I took it. Like I just said, it's not the kind of thing I do every night."

"What does she do?"

"Sorry?"

She finished the last of her fruit and brought her cutlery together. "Your window of opportunity. What does she do?"

His innards squirmed—she was going to eat him alive. "She's an actress," he said.

"Well, _that's_ original."

"Wynna…"

"I suppose we should just be grateful she wasn't an exotic dancer instead."

"She's a perfectly lovely young woman. It's not her fault she wasn't born with a mithril spoon in her mouth. Stop being such a crushing snob."

"And how exactly did you meet her?"

"She sat next to me at the dinner for the function I attended last night."

"Remind me which one it was again?"

"The RAFTAs."

"She must be quite famous, if they put her in the seat next to you."

"She must be, yes." Only the most famous actress in the whole country, and maybe even in Gondor as well. Someone even Aragorn would have heard of, for all that he barely watched three movies a year.

"You're not going to tell me, are you? Who she was, I mean?"

He tapped the side of his nose. "A gentleman never tells."

"A gentleman doesn't bring a strange woman home for a one night stand, either."

"She wasn't strange. And it wasn't a one night stand."

She raised a disbelieving brow. "Really? So you're planning on developing a meaningful relationship with her?"

"Of course not, no, but…"

"But, what?"

Irritation surged in his veins. "Wynna, has anyone ever told you, what a goddamn pain in the ass you are?"

She pursed her lips, pretending to think. "Not that I remember, no."

"Never once, right?" He wasn't surprised—nobody with an ounce of sense (and who wasn't her older brother) would dream of saying something so impertinent to her. Instead, they would tuck their tail between their legs and quietly scurry away, muttering insults and imprecations about know-it-all princesses under their breath.

"You sure you don't want to tell me who it was?" she said.

"Absolutely. My lips are sealed."

"Not that it matters." She flashed a triumphant smile. "If you won't talk, Colwenna will tell me."

"What makes you think she'll know?" he said, making a note to speak to Colwenna later.

"Colwenna looks after your personal rooms, and unlike someone else whose name I won't mention"—she paused, glaring at him _again—"she_ is extremely careful with security matters. She would never allow an unvetted woman to stay in your bedroom unattended. She probably came in the back route the very moment you stepped out the door."

"It might have been one of the footmen instead."

Eowyn shook her head. "You'd never ask a male member of staff to deal with a naked woman." She held up a hand. "And please don't tell me she wasn't naked. You didn't bring her home to play backgammon with her."

"I didn't bring her home to 'play' with her at all," he said, slightly more hotly than he'd intended.

"It was one night, Eomer. You can't tell me you have feelings for her."

"No, but that doesn't mean I don't respect her. She's smart and beautiful and kind, and she's built an extremely successful career for herself out of very humble beginnings. There's a lot about her to admire."

"But not enough to make her Queen of Rohan."

He could feel his temper rising again. "I wasn't trying to make her Queen of Rohan."

"Does she know that? She's not expecting anything more?"

"Yes. And no, of course she isn't." Except, if circumstances allowed, maybe another rigorous 'vetting'.

"You're sure?"

"Yes!"

"You realize how much easier our lives would be if you just didn't do this?"

"We talked about this already, remember?" And therein lay the heart of the matter—they always ended up going round and round in a circle, again and again and again. "I know what my duty is. And I promise I'll do what I have to do, what the country expects me to do. You just need to give me some time."

"You've already had eight years. How much more time do you need?"

"Just a little more. Please," he pleaded.

"Believe it or not, I was actually thinking about this in the bath last night."

That didn't sound good; whenever Eowyn thought in the bath, bad things usually happened. One time, she'd emerged from her soak thinking they should open the Palace to tourists in summer. "And?"

"And I decided, even before I knew about your entertaining last night, I was going to give you eight more months and eighteen more days."

"Sorry?"

"That's how much longer I'm willing to do my stand-in job for."

"Why that long?" he asked, trying to figure out what was happening almost nine months from now. His blood ran Anduin-cold. "Mother of Eru, Eowyn, are you _pregnant?"_

"What?"

"Are you having a baby?"

She looked at him as if he was mad. "Why on earth would you ever think that?"

"Well, what the hell else needs another eight months and twenty days to happen?" Although, it would mean she was barely two weeks along. How good was pregnancy testing now? Would she know she was expecting already? Never mind that; who the hell was the father? Whoever he was, Eomer was going to string him up by the thumbs. Or maybe even the balls. Yes. Given the 'crime', the balls would be better.

Eowyn sighed. "Eomer, that's how long it is until the end of the year."

He hadn't thought of that. "So, you're not pregnant?"

"Well, of _course_ I'm not pregnant."

He heaved a sigh of relief, cancelled the ball-stringing plan. "Thank Bema." His blood ran colder again as he realized what she was actually saying. "Wynna, I can't find a wife by the end of the year!"

"Give me one good reason why not."

"Because last time I looked, wives don't just grow on trees. I have to meet someone first, spend some time getting to know her, figure out if I like her enough to be married to her, and if she would make a good Queen. And are you forgetting how much protocol there would be, just because I'm the King? How many people we would have to consult, how many checks we would have to make, before we could even publish the engagement announcement? And then how long it would take to arrange the wedding? You know as well as I do, nothing happens quickly round here."

"Except your windows of opportunity, it seems."

"That's not fair."

She thumped a fist on the table. "Life isn't fair! And you of all people should know that. If life was fair, we wouldn't even be having this conversation, because Theodred would still be alive, and you wouldn't even be on the throne!"

He jerked back, blinking, stung by the force of her words.

"I'm sorry," she said, rubbing her brow, shoulders slumping. "That was inappropriate. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

Even a King could meet his sister halfway. "Yeah, well, maybe I deserved to be shouted at. I know I haven't always made things easy for you."

"You haven't, no."

"That was the part where you were supposed to contradict me, tell me what a wonderful, thoughtful brother I am."

Smiling, she reached out to lay her hand over his. "You _are_ a wonderful, thoughtful brother."

"That's good to know."

She pulled the hand away. "But the country needs you to be a wonderful, thoughtful husband and father as well."

He sighed. "Which means getting married."

"And soon. My clock is already running. And if you're not careful, the public might start their own clock running as well." She picked up her paper and offered it to him.

He'd been wondering why she'd brought the paper with her. Frowning, he took it from her to open it up. It was today's edition of The Edoras Times—widely regarded by most people as a well-balanced, well-informed, more-or-less factual source of news with a slight pro-establishment view. Not the shrieking, left-wing Riddermark Record, or the doom-and-gloom Helm's Deep Herald. "What am I looking for?" he asked, spreading it over the top of their plates.

"Page five."

He turned to the relevant page. He didn't need to ask what section—the lurid banner across the top made the answer to that question clear. As he scanned the paragraphs underneath, his blood started to boil. "This is ridiculous," he said. "Whoever wrote this article needs to learn to mind their own business." He checked the byline, mentally adding the writer's name to the list of people he would like to have killed, then closed the paper over. "What I do with my personal time has no bearing whatsoever on what kind of job I'm doing."

"Except, the person who wrote this seems to think it does. _And_ they're running an online poll. So, on Thursday, you're going to find out if your subjects think it has any bearing as well."

"Wynna, I swear, even if I live to be a hundred, I'll never understand why so many Rohanese people are so interested in my sex life," he said. In the grand scheme of things, despite his best efforts, it wasn't even that exciting of a sex life. He only ever brought home mature, single, non-scandalous women. He wasn't indulging in threesomes, or throwing drug-fuelled orgies out on the terrace, or hiring expensive prostitutes, or boning teenage girls or other men's wives.

Okay, one other man's wife, but she was getting divorced, so that didn't count.

"You're the King, Eomer. It comes with the territory."

"Don't remember the public being so interested in the monarch's sex life when Uncle Ted was alive."

"He was seventy when he died. And he'd been widowed for twenty-two years. You're young, and single, and apparently considered attractive, although Bema only knows what delusional man or woman they paid to say _that."_

"You're really wasted as a princess, you know. Talent for flattery like that, you should have gone into the diplomatic service instead."

"Well, aren't we feeling witty today?"

"One does one's best with what one has."

She made a pained face. "Yes, but it's not really a lot, though, is it?"

He would never win; he wasn't sure why he even tried.

"If it's any consolation, it was the same for Theodred," she said in a more conciliatory tone. "The gossip about his love life, I mean. The papers kept it to a certain level out of respect for Uncle Ted, they knew he would sue them out of existence if they pushed it too far, but they still generated plenty of it."

Eomer finished his coffee, grimacing as he hit the dregs. "I don't really remember that." Truth be told, he didn't remember much about Theodred at all. Had it really only been ten years since their cousin had died? His funeral felt like a lifetime ago. _Had_ been a lifetime ago, in some ways.

"Well, I _do_ remember," Eowyn said. "And I'm fairly sure he had just as many windows of opportunity as you do." She flashed a sardonic smirk. "Your talent for picking up strange women obviously comes from the Eorl side."

"Both of my sides are the Eorl side." One just slightly more direct than the other.

"Which is probably why you have even worse taste in women than he did."

He dropped his coffee cup back on the saucer. "Okay, am I paying extra for all this abuse, or is it covered by your annual allowance?"

"You're not paying for it at all. I do this for free."

She probably considered it a public service of sorts…

He picked up her pot of tea, offering to refill her cup. She held up a hand to refuse. He set her pot down and grabbed his own pot to pour some more coffee.

She sat in silence, staring into her empty cup.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

She sighed. "Do you remember the day Theodred died?"

A strange line of questioning to pursue. "Course I do." He'd been in his second year at the Royal War College, one month away from his final exams, with a half-decent chance of winning the Sword of Honour. The Commandant himself had come to his quarters to give him the news. In the space of five minutes, his life as he knew it had come to a soul-crushing end. "Was one of the worst three days of my life."

"What were the other two?"

As if she wouldn't already know. "The day Uncle Ted died, obviously." Quietly, he added. "And the day mum and dad died."

"I don't really remember that," she murmured. "The day mum and dad died, I mean."

"Not surprising. You were only eight." But he'd been twelve—judged old enough to be told the whole truth. Even now, the day was still perfectly fresh in his mind, down to what he'd eaten for breakfast and what aftershave the King had been wearing when he'd come to Aldburg to break the news to them.

"Do you remember how you felt when Theodred died?" she said. "And I don't mean just the grief at losing a cousin. How you felt when you realized what his death would mean for you? That it would make you Uncle Ted's heir?"

"Of course I do."

"And how did you feel?"

"A lot of things. Terrified, mostly."

"You didn't really want to be King."

"I knew I had to, it was a matter of duty, but I didn't really want to, no." He gestured at the building around them. "You've seen what comes with the job. Who the hell in their right mind would?"

"A lot of people want the influence that being the King brings."

"I didn't," he said. "I was twenty-four, trying to earn my Lieutenant's commission and serve as Earl of Aldburg at the same time. Had more than enough on my plate as it was. All I wanted was to put in a few years in the army, do some useful work in the Hall, get married, have a few kids, live a nice, quiet, boring life."

"And when Theodred died without his own heir, all that completely vanished."

He nodded. "I finished my course, earned my commission, resigned it the very next day, moved back here to start learning how to run the top job." Which, unfortunately, had come to him much sooner than anyone had expected. What he wouldn't have given to have had ten years as his uncle's successor instead of just two.

"Which you didn't want."

"Not really, no."

"So, you'll understand when I say, I don't want what happened to you to ever happen to me?"

Now, the reason for her change of direction was clear. "Inheriting the throne, you mean?"

"Yes."

"If it's any consolation, I'm not planning on dying anytime soon."

Her expression hardened. "I'm sure Theodred said the same thing."

"He took too many risks. Those planes of his were bloody death traps." All planes were, in his opinion; he fucking hated the things.

"You take too many risks as well."

"When?"

"You don't think you're putting your life in danger every time you ride that death machine of yours?"

They'd already covered the marriage issue—now it was time for the motorcycle issue instead. "It's not a death machine, Wynna. It's a motorcycle. Lots of people ride them."

"But not the way you ride yours. Fastmer told me how hard you push it out on the straight. You make a mistake when you're pulling one-sixty, it won't matter what kind of helmet you're wearing, or how many guards you have with you. You'll still die a horrible death."

"That's not going to happen," he vowed. "I've been riding motorbikes since I was ten. I know what I'm doing."

"Theo used to say the same thing about flying. And look how that ended. With him plummeting into the Ford of Isen."

He would never agree to give the bike up—it was one of the few true freedoms he still had—but that didn't mean he couldn't make some concessions. It obviously worried her, and he really didn't want her to worry any more than she already did. "Would you feel better if I promise not to take it over one-fifty?"

"The highway limit's one-ten."

"But one-ten's _awfully_ dull." At that speed, he couldn't really hit the revs to make the RTEC system kick in.

"Eomer…"

"How about one-thirty, then?"

"One-twenty, and I won't make another complaint."

He pretended to bang a gavel. "One-twenty. Sold to the lovely princess in white."

"I'm sure your bodyguards will appreciate it as well. Did you know, one of the reasons they're finding it hard to recruit new people is that almost nobody who meets the usual requirements knows how to ride as well as you?"

"They could always let me ride on my own."

Her face was thunder. "No, Eomer, they absolutely could not."

"Not like anyone knows who I am when I'm on it."

"Eomer, everyone and their horse in Edoras knows the Firefoot is yours. When you take it out, you might as well have someone follow behind you with a loudspeaker, shouting at everyone to make way for the King."

"I could ask them to paint it black for me." He would rather not; he loved the custom green and gold finish.

"You can paint it pink and put balrog stickers on it for all I care, you're still not taking it out on your own. At the absolute minimum, you need three bodyguards with you. Preferably four or five."

"Okay, and when did you turn into my mother?"

"Maybe when you turned into a child?"

For the second time in as many minutes, her words shocked him into silence. Was his behaviour really that bad?

"I'm sorry," she instantly said, tone meek, eyes cast down. "I shouldn't have said that. It was cruel, and unfair."

He sat back in his chair. "There's obviously something honest behind it, if you felt the need to say it at all."

Sighing, she grabbed her pot to pour some more tea. "I don't think you behave like a child."

"Well, that's a relief."

"But I also don't think you always behave as responsibly as you should. Whether you like it or not, people expect you to set a good example. They'll put up with you pulling stunts on your bike and playing the field when you're twenty-four, but not so much when you're thirty-four. And certainly not when you're forty-four."

"I haven't pulled a stunt in years. And I won't still be single when I'm forty-four. I promise." The mere prospect was rather depressing. Even Elfhelm would probably have sorted out his love life by then.

"You need to get married," she said, going back to the main problem again. "And have some children as well. At least two, but if you ask me, three or four would be even better." She gestured at the paper. "Before it becomes a larger issue. Before a lot of people start to wonder if Rohan even needs a king at all."

"Wynna, they're not going to abolish the monarchy just because I don't have a wife."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." She pulled the paper to her side of the table, flicked until she found page five and began to read the opinion piece that had made his blood boil.

"By all accounts, this will be a busy summer for the House of Eorl," she started in her best royal speech-giving tone. "In June and July, the King will celebrate his thirty-fourth birthday, and the eighth anniversary of his accession to the throne. In August, the entire nation will celebrate five hundred years since Cirion and Eorl took the Oath at Amon Anwar, regarded by many as the event which brought the Kingdom of Rohan into existence. We already know several major events have been planned, including a birthday party at the Ritz for the King's family and close friends, a series of free concerts in Hornburg Park that will be open to the general public, and a formal banquet in the Golden Hall for three hundred VIP guests. You don't need to be a palace insider to know all of these events will be arranged by the King's sister, The Princess Royal, or that during the formal banquet, she will take the seat beside the King at the head table."

"Well, of course you will. You're the most senior female royal." Or, rather, the most senior female royal who was willing to help, since their Granna Morwen and Aunt Eorwena now refused to attend formal events. "Who the hell else would sit beside me?"

Eowyn continued.

"Are we the only people who wonder, for how long will this unusual arrangement continue? Does it not seem rather strange that a grown man of thirty-three, who, by all accounts has proven to be a capable and effective monarch, still relies on his equally unmarried sister to fill the role of royal consort for him? Is there any hope King Eomer will ever marry, and provide the kingdom not just with a Queen Consort, but with the heir it so desperately needs?"

That made him roll his eyes so hard he almost saw his own brain. "They make it sound as if me dying without an heir would cause the country to fall to pieces."

"Readers may wonder if the King's reluctance to settle down has anything to do with the slow but steady stream of attractive female visitors to the Meduseld Palace. Sadly, none of the women in question appear to have visited more than once, so it seems unlikely the King is attempting to form a lasting relationship with any of them."

Eowyn lowered the paper to glare at him over the top. "Either you haven't been as discreet bringing them into the palace as you thought, or one of the five people who knows what you've been doing is talking."

Eomer hoped the former. He trusted the five people in question with his life; he would be absolutely gutted if he found out any of them had betrayed him in such a personal way.

Eowyn continued. "Here at The Times, we feel we should ask, is this the behaviour we want or need from our monarch? Is this the example our King should be setting? When he stood in the Great Hall of the Hornburg three days after his uncle's death, and took the coronation oath, did he actually mean what he said? As we recall, he promised to serve the kingdom, body and soul. With all due respect to His Majesty, perhaps he should focus less on serving with his body, and more on serving with his soul?"

Blessed Valar. Even Fenbrand at his most pompous couldn't match that.

"The House of Eorl has never been in a more precarious state. Now, it effectively consists of only two people, neither of whom show any inclination to marry. Readers may imagine what it would mean for the kingdom if both should die without an heir. Who, then, becomes our King? Should we accept any instructions to that effect left in the previous monarch's will? Should we allow the descendants of Princesses Thengwen and Morghild, all currently excluded from the succession by the terms of the House Law, to lay claim to the throne? Should we hold a referendum to choose a new monarch? Should we even have a monarch at all? Times have changed and society has evolved. In Rohan and Dale, and even in parts of tradition-bound Gondor, hereditary rule is increasingly viewed as an aberration instead of a norm. Advancement based on achievement and merit is now the order of the day. If Eomer and Eowyn of Rohan both die without heirs, should we perhaps take that as a sign to abandon the monarchy, and try something more democratic instead?"

Eowyn lowered the paper. "Two more paragraphs. Should I keep reading, or have you heard enough?"

"I've heard enough."

She folded the paper up and threw it into a nearby bin. "That's my opinion of the piece. Pompous, overwrought trash." She leaned forward over the table. "But you know as well as I do, where the press leads, some people will follow."

"Those people are sheep."

"Eomer…"

"I can't control what people think, Wynna. And no matter how hard I try, or what I do, I'll never keep everyone happy." He'd tried that once, back in the early days of his reign, had almost worked himself into a state of collapse before Colwenna had sat him down and given him the sternest, most ear-burning lecture he'd ever received in his life.

"It's a terrible piece, but even you have to accept, they make some valid points. You _did_ promise to serve the kingdom."

"You think I'm _not_ serving the kingdom?"

"Of course you are. But when you're the King, service comes in many forms. It's not just giving speeches and signing new laws. Sometimes, service looks like getting married and having children as well."

He was starting to feel a little bit picked on. "Why do I suddenly think you're secretly in cahoots with the press?"

"Eomer, if I was secretly in cahoots with the press, I'd make sure they wrote something better than that," she said, nodding at the folded up paper stuffed in the trash.

"True."

"Sometimes, when two people say the same thing at the same time, it _is_ just a coincidence. It's not because the people in question are secretly ganging up on you." She reached out to steal the last piece of his bacon. "Even when you deserve to be ganged up on."

"It's amazing you know, how _genuinely_ loved I feel."

Her expression softened and her tone turned kind. "I know that's another thing that's probably made the issue harder, that you'd prefer to marry for love. I know you remember mum and dad, and how in love they were with each other. But you have to accept that what they had was very special. Most members of our family haven't been as lucky as them."

"It's not just that."

"What, then?"

"It's just…" He sighed, struggling to put his concerns into words. "Where and how do I even start?"

"Maybe at the Midsummer party? Or the anniversary banquet? It's going to be full of smart, attractive, capable women from at least six different countries. If you can't meet at least one person you like the look of there, I honestly don't know what to tell you."

The anniversary banquet, oh Gods. He'd forgotten all about that. Actually, no, he hadn't, but like the issue of finding a wife, he'd pushed it to the back of his mind. Parties meant people, and fancy parties meant fancy people, and fancy people meant elves. But the banquet was still a few months away, and Eowyn had the arrangements in hand. No need to brush up on his Quenya just yet.

"I can't see how it would be anyone from any of our own Landed houses. There's not really that many of them, and I'm pretty sure I've met every unmarried Landed daughter there is."

"You can marry a commoner now, you removed the one remaining legal bar when you passed your reforms. And there's nothing that says you have to marry a Rohanese woman."

"I already said I won't marry an elvish woman." But he was open to the commoner part.

"That still leaves Gondor, Bree and Dale. And maybe even Dunland as well."

"Don't think the government would be comfortable with me marrying a Dunnish woman." Not with the tit-for-tat border quarrel still raging. "And I'm not talking to any Gondorian woman who has her head stuck up her arse about how pure her Numenorean blood is. Got no bloody time for that."

"I'm sure Lothiriel was just the bad apple in the barrel. Most Gondorian women I've met are perfectly pleasant."

"Wouldn't be hard to be more pleasant than she was."

"I just wish I'd been in the room when she turned you down. I know she thought we were uncivilized. I would have shown her just how uncivilized we can be."

And wouldn't that have been a sight? The Prince of Dol Amroth's daughter and the King of Rohan's sister, rolling around on a dining room floor, pulling each other's hair and screaming obscenities in their native tongues at each other. He knew who he would have put his money on. People who thought his sister was soft just because she was a princess usually learned the painful way she was as tough as burnished steel underneath.

"Would certainly have made the evening more interesting," he said.

"Hmm, yes, it wasn't the most exciting of occasions, was it?"

"When it's in Gondor, it never is. All that bloody protocol, who sits where, who makes a speech, whether you pass the wine to the left or the right. I swear, it's enough to give you a drinking problem." He was so glad Rohan wasn't like that. There might be the occasional clash in the Golden Hall when the wine and beer had been flowing too long, but he would take upturned tables and bare knuckle fights over pompous protocol any day of the week.

"But Gondor has one advantage on us."

"What's that?" he asked, even though he could think of several dozen himself. Size, power, location, wealth. Hell, even the weather was better…

"Their King has legitimate children."

She was like a dog with a well-gnawed bone. "But none of the girls can inherit, so he still doesn't have an heir apparent."

"I'm sure the next one will be a boy."

"You said that the last two times," he pointed out.

"And I'll probably say it again, if the next one is a girl as well. If Aragorn dies without a legitimate son, it'll cause all manner of succession problems. I think it'll take a few more attempts before he and Arwen stop trying."

"He could always do what I did, change the law to give women the same rights as men."

"He could, but he'd have an awfully messy fight on his hands."

"No worse than the one I had." The conservatives in the Hall and the House had fought him on it tooth and nail, but if they had their way, the Rohanese would still be living in straw-roofed houses and riding their bloody horses to work. "Was a lot of trouble, but worth it, I think."

She frowned in a way that made his stomach turn over. "Eomer, can I ask a difficult question?" she said.

"Better than anyone I know."

"One you might not be entirely willing to answer?"

"Maybe, but I won't know until you ask it."

She topped up her tea, added a smidgeon of sugar and stirred it. "With all this talk of legitimate children and heirs, I feel I should ask…"

It must be something bad, if she was so unwilling to get to the point. "Uh huh?"

"Do you have any _illegitimate_ children?"

Thankfully, this was an easy answer. "I don't, no. Or, at least, none that any woman has so far made me aware of." And he was pretty sure a woman would, given his wealth and social position.

"Not that an illegitimate child could inherit the throne, of course, but we'd obviously still prefer to know."

There was that word again. _"We?_ Really, Wynna?"

"Yes, Eomer. _We._ When you're the King, what children you do or don't have is a concern for more than just you."

"So, as well as my sex life, you're all gossiping about my fecundity, too?"

"Only the lack of it," she muttered into her tea.

Ouch.

"So, what's on the cards for you today?" he asked, eager to change the topic of conversation before she decided she needed to know exactly how many intimate partners he'd had or what his favourite sexual positions were.

"The usual. A meeting with Fenbrand at nine to review the arrangements for your birthday party. Lunch with the Countess of Keveleok at twelve. Opening a new exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery at two."

"Sounds fun."

"The lunch with the Countess certainly won't be. She's going to spend it reminding me how many unmarried daughters she has."

Back to the well-gnawed bone again. "Three of them, right?"

She nodded. "I assume that means you're not interested in any of them?"

"Afraid not, no. They're all perfectly pleasant young women, but also all a few years below what I consider the minimum age for marriage."

"The oldest just turned twenty-four."

"That's ten years younger than me."

"So?"

"Wynna, what the hell would I have in common with a twenty-four-year-old?"

"I'm going to assume marital status and reproductive ability isn't a suitable answer?"

"Guess what? For once, you're absolutely right. I’m not marrying someone just because she has the right temperament, whatever the fuck _that_ is, and I'm sure as shit not marrying someone just because her uterus works."

"There's no need to get so angry."

"I'm not—" he broke off, realizing he was almost shouting. "I'm not angry," he said, more calmly. "I just need everyone to remember this is a very personal issue as well as a matter of state."

"So, I should rule out all of the Keveleok daughters, then?"

"Yes."

Sighing, she rubbed the spot between her eyes. "I'm sure I'll be able to think of something diplomatic to tell their mother."

"Nobody tells a white lie as well as you do."

"It would be _so_ much easier for everyone if I didn't have to tell lies at all."

"It won't be for much longer, I promise."

"So, from now until the end of the year, you're going to focus on getting married?"

"Yes," he said, firmly, trying to convince himself as much as her.

"If you're serious, you should really give up the flings."

"Do I have to? Because I rather enjoy them." Especially when they were as flexible as the one last night.

She grabbed her spoon to smack him in the face with it.

"Okay, okay," he muttered, rubbing the wounded spot. "I promise I'll give up the flings."

Outside, it started to rain. He checked the time; it was almost eight-twenty. His first appointment was at nine, and he still had to wash and get dressed. He finished what was left of his of coffee.

"Eomer, before you go, can I ask another difficult question?" Eowyn said.

"If I said 'no', would you decide to not ask it?" And given the topics they'd covered today, could it really be any worse than anything she'd already asked?

She took a deep breath. "When Theo died, did you believe the rumours? That Grima had a hand in his death?"

It took him a while to decide how to answer. "I'm honestly not sure what to believe. When I became King, one of the first things I did was ask Algrin to unseal the records and re-examine Theo's crash for me." He didn't say, and their uncle's death as well—he'd wanted to be sure King Theoden's massive, terminal stroke had been as natural as the doctors had claimed. "All the evidence points to it being an accident, but we're still finding traces of Grima's wrongdoing all over the place, even now. And if he was really working for Mordor all the time he was our uncle's Secretary, or even back before that, when he worked for the Interior Ministry instead, who the hell knows what he was capable of?"

Eowyn's expression turned cold. "What I would do to him, if I had the chance."

"What I _wouldn't_ do to him," Eomer countered.

"You ever wonder where he is now?"

"I assume, somewhere safe and happy in Mordor."

"With a huge chunk of our money."

 _"And_ my new car."

That got him a hint of a smile. But it faded as quickly as it appeared. "I still think about him a lot, you know," she said, staring into her cup.

"Who, Grima?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Sometimes, I wonder if he would have done what he did if I'd been a little bit nicer to him."

This was another thing she needed to learn to let go of. "Wynna, he didn't betray us, steal a chunk of our money and maybe assassinate the heir to the throne just because you didn't want to have dinner with him. You were twenty, for Bema's sake. Only just a full legal adult. He was forty-four. A grown man old enough to be your father." He didn't say it, but he was quite sure Grima had only developed his mania for her because she'd been so pleasant to him—he'd misinterpreted her innate kindness for sexual interest. "He chose to betray us. Nobody else ever made him do it, either by action or inaction."

"I know. It was just hard. To lose Theo, and then have the whole business with Grima blow up…"

A cold shiver ran up his spine. "Wynna, please tell me what happened with Grima isn't the reason you don't really date?" He was quite sure it was part of the reason why she could sometimes be so touchy with people, especially men she didn't know well. The touchiness wasn't really her—it was just one of the protective layers she'd developed.

She finished what was left of her tea.

"It is, isn't it?" he said.

"Let's just say, the incident with Grima left me with some serious trust issues." Voice dropping to a murmur, she added, "And the business with Aragorn didn't help. I made a total fool of myself."

"You did absolutely no such thing." He didn't tell her—she would be horrified to know the two of them had even discussed it—but even Aragorn had said as much.

"Eomer, by the time I'd known him for three weeks, I thought I was going to marry him."

"And by the time I'd known Lothiriel for five days, I thought I was going to marry her," Eomer pointed out. "Don't think that's being a fool so much as just being young and naïve, and not understanding the difference between sudden infatuation and love."

"You weren't being young and naïve. You'd just inherited the throne. You were panicking, trying to tick off one of the items on your 'how to be a king' list."

"Maybe, but you have to admit, even when you're panicking, five days is a little unhinged."

"We're both a little bit impulsive that way."

Several people had told him as much. Even now, Colwenna still occasionally had to remind him to keep the worst of his rashness in check. "We don't make decisions lightly, but we can certainly make them quickly. Too quickly, I sometimes think." He smiled softly. "We have dad to thank for that. Don't forget, he proposed to mum after two months."

"At least he had the sense to propose to someone he knew would accept."

"Let's be honest, though. In hindsight, it was probably a good thing Lothiriel refused me."

Frowning, she raised her head. "Eomer, has it occurred to you, that what happened with Lothiriel has maybe left _you_ with some trust issues as well?"

That was an interesting question—one he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to face. "I don't see why."

"She turned down your marriage proposal in front of a room full of people."

"Eight people. That's hardly a room full."

"Even still. It can't have been very pleasant."

Just thinking back on what the Dol Amrothian princess had said to him at the end of that dinner made him want to shower in bleach. "It wasn't, no." He shrugged, trying to project a nonchalance he didn't feel. "But no harm done, except to my pride." And, for a few months after, his confidence with women as well.

"She's not married yet, you know."

"Who, Lothiriel?"

Eowyn nodded. "A friend who lives in Dol Amroth told me."

He snickered. "Bet her father's about ready to sell her."

She gave him a disparaging look. "Can I remind His Majesty of what he just said, about women being people, not things?"

"Her Royal Highness makes a fair point. His Majesty withdraws his remark."

"Does knowing Lothiriel's still single make you happy?"

"To be honest, I don't really care. It was eight years ago. She's moved on, and so have I. It's all lava under the bridge at Khazad-Dûm now."

She peered at him, as if she was trying to see into his soul.

He pulled away, frowning. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm trying to decide if you're lying to me."

"Why on earth would I be lying to you?"

"Maybe because you're scared to tell me how you really feel?"

"Wynna, I know you mean well, but please don't try to psychoanalyze me. What happened with Lothiriel was unpleasant, but it didn't leave me with rejection issues. Or commitment issues. Or abandonment issues. Or whatever the hell you want to call it. I'm not still single because I'm too scared to allow a woman into my life." The three near-misses he'd told her about should be all the proof she needed of that. "I'm still single because I haven't met the right woman yet." He pointed at the discarded newspaper. "As soon as I solve that problem, all that bullshit will sort itself out."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

She sat back, finally satisfied with his words. "That leaves one final question to ask."

His stomach clenched in anticipation. "What's that?"

"If we're going to find you a wife, where and when should we start?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Thursday April 16, 2020**

As he approached the double doors, Fenbrand wondered if the King would be in a better mood today.

Not that he'd been in a _bad_ mood as such—he simply hadn't been his usual, cheerful, ebullient self. For the last three days, he'd been unusually introspective instead. _Broody_ , one might even say. And, much to his irritation, Fenbrand hadn't as yet been able to figure out why. Was it because of that piece in The Times? Was his workload getting to him? Or was it something of a more personal nature—perhaps some trouble with a new lady friend?

Whatever the cause, the King's mood was starting to put his usually upbeat Household on edge. A few more days of royal moping, of watching His Majesty roam the halls with his eyes cast down, lost deep in thought, and the staff would start to avoid the King the same way they already avoided the White Princess.

And _there_ was another interesting question—for how much of His Majesty's mood might Her Royal Highness be to blame? Fenbrand knew from speaking to the guards that she'd demanded to see her brother on Monday, storming into the King's private rooms like an armed maiden from ancient times with a righteous battle to win. He also knew her unplanned, early morning visit _had_ concerned that piece in The Times, but even now, after almost three days of poking and prompting all the right people, he still didn't know what the royal brother and sister had actually said to each other. Or shouted at each other, if whispered reports were to be believed.

Fenbrand paused at the door. "How is he this morning?" he murmured to Fastmer, working with Godhild today. Dunthel must be on a day off.

Fastmer sighed, but kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. "Still a little preoccupied, sir."

Fenbrand leaned in closer still. "Any indication yet as to why?"

"Not that I've heard, sir, no."

"You'll keep me informed if you do?" Fenbrand asked, looking from one expressionless guard to the other. He was absolutely determined to uncover the cause of His Majesty's mood. He was the King's Principal Private Secretary—it was his job to keep the Horse of State on its feet and galloping in a straight line. If something was throwing the King off his stride, he needed to know, the sooner the better.

And, on a more personal level, he absolutely _loathed_ being out of the loop...

Godhild nodded curtly. "Absolutely, sir," she said. "If we hear anything, you'll be the first to know."

"Thank you, Godhild. Please see that I am."

He strode through the double doors—thankfully, both wide open today—crossed the empty reception room and knocked twice on the heavy door at the very far end of the room.

"Come in," a familiar voice inside called out.

Fenbrand reached for the wrought iron handle, turned it and pushed the door in. "Good morning, Your Majesty," he said, pausing just inside the door to lightly bring his heels together and give his usual, respectful, from-the-neck bow.

As he'd expected, the King was at his desk, dressed in a smart, sober suit and tie—a Hergild, by the looks of the cloth—slowly but surely working his way through his green and gold box of government papers. Without looking up, he said, "Good morning, Fenbrand. How are you today?"

"Very well, sir, thank you. And you? Did you sleep well after your charity function last night?" It had run later than the RAFTAs, but at least this time, the King had come home alone. That Fenbrand knew of, at least—the guards that manned the Sovereign's Door had suddenly turned silent on him. Possibly because they had no new information to share, but it was still immensely frustrating, to lose such a fruitful source of information about the King's private affairs just as he was building up others.

A spider's work was never done.

"I did, yes, thank you for asking." The King signed a letter, marking the bottom of the page with the four bold strokes of his regnal initial, put down his pen and moved his box of papers aside. "Have a seat, please," he said, gesturing to the nicer of the two chairs in front of his desk. As Fenbrand had known he would, but as anyone of good breeding knew, one _never_ sat in a monarch's presence without that monarch's explicit consent.

Fenbrand sank into the chair. As always, he waited for His Majesty to initiate the conversation.

Smiling, the King sat back in his chair. "So, what problems have you brought me today?" he asked, lightly clasping his hands in his lap.

Fenbrand opened his leather folder to draw out his list. "I wouldn't necessarily call them problems, sir."

"Fenbrand, you only ever bring me problems these days. I can't remember when you last brought me something pleasant to deal with instead." His words were harsh, but his voice was light—there was no malice behind what he said. There never was. Fenbrand had worked in the Royal Household for thirty-eight years, starting in King Theoden's reign, and couldn't remember his current monarch ever once losing his temper with him. He'd seen His Majesty lose his temper, yes—he was a man of passion and feeling—but always in a general sense, raging at some random, irritating thing, never at a particular person.

"Let's think of them as _challenges_ , shall we?" Fenbrand suggested.

The King snorted. "Very well. What _challenges_ have you brought me today?"

Several, as it happened, some thornier than others. He would leave the thorniest of them to last. "The Prime Minister's Principal Secretary called me last night, Miss Harbrand would like you to know, she's probably going to call a surprise election next week."

"Any reason why she couldn't just wait to tell me at our usual audience on Tuesday?"

"I believe she's concerned about a leak, sir. She thought it best you didn't find out by reading about it in The Times."

"Makes sense, yes." The King frowned. "But I thought we weren't due for another election until next year."

"That's correct, sir, but with criminal charges now being laid against various members of the House in connection to the Adenbrook scandal, His Majesty's opposition is currently in a serious state of disarray."

"So, she's trying to push through an election now, to take advantage of the chaos."

"I believe that's her intention, yes."

"Is that legal?"

Fenbrand paused, taking care with the wording of his response, knowing he was touching on a sensitive constitutional matter. "Technically, yes."

"What about non-technically?"

"As you know, sir, the Prime Minister cannot dissolve Parliament of her own accord, she has to ask you to dissolve it for her, but you _are_ permitted to refuse if you feel certain conditions haven't been met."

"That's the Lanholm Doctrine, right?"

"Yes, sir, that's correct," Fenbrand said. How enormously pleasing it was to work for a monarch who'd taken the time to learn what duties and rights his position involved. He'd liked Prince Theodred immensely, but the late Duke of the Mark had never taken more than a passing interest in the day-to-day workings of the Crown. If the Duke had lived, and was sitting here now instead of his cousin, there wasn't a snowball's chance on Mount Doom he would know the Lanholm Doctrine existed, much less how and when it applied. "You can refuse if you think the existing Parliament is still capable of functioning correctly, if you believe an election would be detrimental to the nation or the economy—"

"—and if someone else in the governing party is willing to become my Prime Minister for me," the King concluded. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. "Not sure the first condition applies. From what I've heard, Parliament's been a total disaster since the Adenbrook scandal broke."

"I'm not an expert by any means, we would probably have to check with some constitutional lawyers first, but I don't believe the second condition applies right now, either," Fenbrand said. "We're not at war, the ESE is up almost fifteen percent since the start of the year, and all the usual leading and lagging economic indicators are healthy."

"And Harbrand's got her party wrapped up so tight, nobody worth even their weight in lead would be willing to even try to replace her." The king's smile was polite. "I guess we'll be having an election at the end of May, then, won't we?"

"It does look that way, sir, yes."

The King fell silent for a few moments. "Respond to the Prime Minister for me, before she comes to see me on Tuesday, let her know my Proclamation of Dissolution stands ready." He smiled again, but not in a generous way. "But also make sure she understands, I know _exactly_ why she's calling the election, and I don't approve of her manipulating the democratic process for her own ends."

"Yes, sir."

"But say it _politely_ , of course. Not as plainly as that. Put it into the usual, helpful double-speak for me."

"I'll endeavour to devise some appropriately diplomatic phrasing for you."

"Thank you, Fenbrand." The King gestured at his leather folder. "So, what's next?"

Fenbrand went back to his list. A much easier item this time. "Lord Gamulf Romengar and his wife would like you to stand as a naming parent for their new son."

The King wrinkled his nose. "When the _hell_ did they have a new son?"

Fenbrand tried not to sigh. "In February, Your Majesty."

"Really?"

Fenbrand nodded. "I believe I informed you at the time." He knew for certain he had—he'd already checked his diary notes for that day—but one never corrected the King. Except, perhaps, when one's life or sanity depended on it.

"I don't doubt it. I just don't remember."

"Your Majesty so often has so much on his mind." And, much to The Princess Royal's frustration, never paid the slightest bit of attention to the various comings and goings in the kingdom's Landed Houses.

"You're the soul of diplomacy, Fenbrand, you know that? I swear, I could have someone beheaded out in the street for looking at me the wrong way, and you'd still find a nice way to describe it."

"You _are_ allowed to have someone beheaded, Your Majesty," Fenbrand murmured.

"Technically, yes. Not sure how well it would go down if I actually did."

"I imagine that would depend on precisely who you beheaded, sir."

"I don't suppose I could get away with beheading my sister?"

"I suspect not, sir."

The King sighed. "Shame."

Here was the opening Fenbrand had been waiting for—his chance to find out what The Princess Royal might have said or done to upset the king so. "Has Her Royal Highness conducted herself in an unsupportive manner this week?" Fenbrand said—a masterpiece of polite double-speak, even if he said so himself.

The King slowly nodded. "She's, uh, she's been a bit challenging this week, yes."

"Anything I can perhaps assist with?"

Now, the King shook his head. "Not at the moment, no." He smiled. "Maybe by the end of the year, if all goes to plan."

"You know where to find me if and when you do need me, sir," Fenbrand said, trying to decide what on earth the King's response meant.

"That I do." The king took a breath and shook his head slightly, as if clearing some mental cobwebs away. "As for Lord and Lady Gamulf's request, they're not close friends, I haven't even seen the child, so I think 'no' would be the best answer."

Fenbrand dipped his head. "A wise choice, Your Majesty. You know how touchy some of the Landed can be. It's best to avoid giving any impression of favouritism."

"You'll respond to Lady Gamulf for me?"

"Of course, sir."

"Say all the usual things? Deeply honoured, would love to, couldn't possibly, congratulations, hope she and the new baby are well?"

Fenbrand scribbled some notes in his pad. "Of course, sir, yes."

"Oh, and why don't we send the new arrival a nice naming day gift?"

Just what Fenbrand had been about to suggest. " _Excellent_ idea, sir."

"A boy, you said?"

"Yes, sir. The couple's second child."

"So, not the heir to the earldom?"

"No, sir. They already have a two-year-old daughter." A future Countess of Romengar in her own right, thanks to the King's legal reforms.

The King sat back. "So, not a horse, then. Hmm." He pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"Would His Majesty like me to select something for him?"

With a relieved smile, the King nodded. "Please, yes. Something expensive, but not _too_ expensive. If you need any input, Colwenna can probably help. She's very good with that kind of thing." The smile turned wistful and fond. "When we came to live here after our parents died, she used to buy all the presents to us from our uncle. He wrote the tags, but she was the one who chose all the gifts."

"Of course, sir," Fenbrand murmured, scribbling a reminder to have a word with Colwenna later. He'd never married, didn't have children of his own, so was happy to let someone more experienced than him help him with the decision.

"So, that's two items down."

Fenbrand checked the next item on the agenda. He was sure he already knew the answer, but like the previous matter, he still had to ask. "Some charities are looking for a new patron, sir. They're asking if you would be able to take on the role."

"How many this time?"

"Seven, sir."

The King winced. "That's rather a lot. Can you pick the best two?"

"I already took the liberty, sir," Fenbrand said, holding out two pieces of paper with a summary of one organization on each. "A charity to rescue abandoned horses, and a charity to support members of the Armed Forces transitioning back to civilian life. Given the titles and positions you hold, I thought those two the most appropriate choices."

The King took the pieces of paper to quickly scan through each one. "The usual duties, I assume?"

Fenbrand nodded. "An annual fundraising function, the occasional rousing speech or meet-and-greet visit."

"Can I fit them in?"

"To be honest, not really, sir, no. Your charity slate is already rather full as it is."

"Add both of them to my list. Let them know I said 'yes', and the usual apologetic refusal to the others."

"Yes, sir."

"But check with The Princess Royal first. She might be able to take on some of the ones I don't have room for."

Knowing how busy The Princess Royal was—almost as busy as the King himself—that seemed highly unlikely. "I'll review the others with Seonell tomorrow."

"Is that it for today? Anything else?"

"Just two more matters, Your Majesty." Neither of which was pleasant—he would deal with the least unpleasant problem first. Although, once he'd heard both, the King might disagree with his ranking. "As you may remember, your cousin Thendred's daughter recently celebrated her coming-of-age."

"You sent her a nice present from us, didn't you?"

"I did, Your Majesty, yes. With apologies from both of you for not being able to attend the party."

"Good man, thank you. So, what's the problem?"

"It seems Miss Colafell has decided to take up one of her late father's causes."

"Oh? Which one?"

His Majesty was going to _hate_ this. "Someone close to the family has warned me, Miss Colafell may be about to petition the Hall of Lords to ask for the restoration of her grandmother's succession rights, and thus of hers and her younger sister's as well."

The King heaved a bone-weary sigh. "Really?"

"I'm afraid so, sir, yes."

"I was hoping Thenwis would be smarter than that."

"I think we all were, sir."

"She _must_ know, she's wasting her time. I can understand why she's upset, but the removal of her grandmother's rights was all done in accordance with the House Law at the time. She has no legal basis whatsoever for requesting their restoration. Has nobody explained that to her?"

"I believe several people have tried, Your Majesty. But I also believe the young lady may be suffering from a rather alarming case of not listening to what she doesn't want to hear."

The King shook his head. "It won't be her. Her mother will be pulling the strings."

"That's not what my sources have told me, sir."

"Oh?"

"I hear she's rather _headstrong_ , sir," Fenbrand said, being as delicate as he could, remembering the young lady in question was still the King's cousin. "Determined to do what she wants to do, and not the type of person to leave any strings to pull."

"And she's _twenty_. Bema save us."

"What would Your Majesty like me to do?"

The king shrugged and held his hands wide. "What _can_ you do, Fenbrand? She's allowed to petition the Hall. I have no legal right to stop her. And I have no legal right to tell the Hall not to listen to what she has to say. And to then decide if what she has to say is valid."

"You _do_ have social influence, sir."

"Influence, yes. Authority, no. When push comes to shove, I would need the latter." The King briefly pressed his palms to his eyes. "I just wish I understood why she's even doing this at all. Her father always knew how pointless a petition would be. He complained to anyone who would listen about how unfair the whole thing was, but he understood how hard it is to change the succession. He knew he would be wasting his time."

"If I may be impertinent for a moment, sir, I fear Miss Colafell's decision may be partly due to His Majesty's own actions."

The King scrunched his face. "The hell did _I_ do?"

"You lifted the bar on royals marrying commoners, sir. _And_ you changed the throne to a gender-neutral succession."

"Fenbrand, I was just trying to modernize the monarchy."

"Of course you were, sir," Fenbrand said in his most soothing tone. "And I personally think both changes were very much for the better, but you _do_ realize, if King Thengel had made them before any of his children were born, Miss Colafell would be Queen now instead of you?" Or, rather, the eighty-year-old Princess Thengwen would, but the point was the same.

"But King Thengel _didn't_ make those changes." The King tapped his thumb to his chest. " _I_ did."

"Indeed, sir."

"I'm perfectly willing to acknowledge that what happened to my aunt was horribly unfair by modern standards. She shouldn't have had to give up her rights just because she married an untitled man. But it wasn't considered unfair back then. Even Thengwen herself accepted the loss of her rights at the time. And does Thenwis understand how much trouble she might be about to cause? Her grandmother is the _oldest_ of King Theoden's sisters. That means Thenwis is the senior descendant of King Thengel's _most senior_ line. If the Hall restores her rights, where exactly does she fit in the line of succession? After me? After Eowyn? And what about Aunt Morghild's descendants in Gondor? Do they all have their rights restored as well?"

Fenbrand had no answer for that. "I can't deny it's an extremely complex issue, sir."

"Any suggestions on what we can do?"

"I thought, perhaps, we might bring the Prime Minister into the loop? She'll want to be aware of any threat to the Crown, sir, no matter how remote it might seem. And in the unlikely event the Hall of Lords _did_ vote to approve the petition"—a not unthinkable outcome, given how bloody-minded some members of the Hall could be—"it's the Prime Minister who would decide if it would then be heard in the Commons. I'm almost certain she would refuse to present it, because she'll understand as much as we do how difficult it is to change the Law of Succession, but it couldn't do any harm to confirm."

"Hmm, yes, now _there's_ an idea." The gleam in the King's eye was wicked. "Her support could be the trade-off for me not objecting too much to her snap election."

"An _excellent_ point, Your Majesty."

The King heaved another sigh. "I thought we were done with all this nonsense when Thendred died. You don't know how much it depresses me that his daughter's picking it up all over again."

"They _do_ say history is a circle, sir."

"Bema, Fenbrand, I bloody well hope not."

In hindsight, given the various tragedies in the House of Eorl, that might not have been the best thing to say. "I'll follow up with the Prime Minister tomorrow, sir. Make sure she appreciates the gravity of the situation. Let's see if we can't nip the whole thing in the bud before the young lady even publishes her intent to petition."

The King snapped his fingers. "And that reminds me. Is there any chance we can start using another paper for our official announcements?"

"There's no law that says we have to use The Times for these things, sir. But it _is_ considered the kingdom's most reputable source of news."

"Not this week, it bloody well isn't."

An opportunity to be useful presented itself. "Your Majesty, you _do_ know, the owner of The Edoras Times is an old school friend of mine?"

The King nodded. "I did actually know that, yes."

"Would you like me to speak to him, sir? Perhaps convey your"—what was the best word to use—"your _discontent_ to him?"

"Discontent," the King repeated, smiling, shaking his head. "Fenbrand, I swear, the way you choose your words, it's like listening to classical music."

Pride swelled in Fenbrand's chest. "Thank you, sir."

"But no, I don't need you to convey my _discontent_ to him. Rohan is a democracy, and as much as I might occasionally wish otherwise, I'm only a constitutional monarch. Which means, sadly, as long as they don't break the law, your old friend and his editors have the right to publish whatever opinion they want."

"Yes, sir."

The King raised a warning finger. "But your friend should realize, I know _exactly_ what the limit of the law is. If he writes so much as a single libellous word about me, I'll set half the city's lawyers on him. And the less friendly half, at that."

"I'm sure the owner is well aware of that, sir." Fenbrand knew he was—he himself had delivered the same warning in person, in no uncertain terms.

"So, we're probably going to have an election, someone has had a baby, some new charities need my help, and I'm in very mild danger of losing my throne to a twenty-year-old woman who sounds as if she has bigger balls than my horse. Please tell me you've left something nice for last."

Sadly, Fenbrand hadn't. "Some questions about the guest list for the five hundredth anniversary banquet, sir."

"Shouldn't you review them with The Princess Royal instead? She's handling all the arrangements for me."

"I've already reviewed them with her, sir, but there are some details she thought you would want to weigh in on."

The King grunted. "That's Eowyn speak for 'something awkward has come up, and I don't want to make the decision', isn't it?"

The Princess Royal's actual words had been slightly more civil than that. "I believe, in this instance, sir, Her Royal Highness didn't feel it was her place to deal with the matter."

"That'll be a first." The King waved at Fenbrand's folder. "Go on, then. Tell me."

"As you know, the banquet will be a state occasion, with guests from various foreign nations."

"And the King and Queen of Gondor as the guests of honour."

"Yes, sir." As was entirely fitting, giving the banquet was to mark the creation of the Gondor-Rohan alliance.

"This is about who else we put on the list, isn't it?" the king asked, rushing straight to the heart of the matter, as he so often did. "Who we have to invite, because it's a formal occasion, but who you know I won't want to invite?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're going to make me send an invite to Lasgalen, aren't you?"

"Your Majesty has to understand, it would cause a serious diplomatic incident if we didn't."

"Don't see why. We barely have an official relationship with them to have a diplomatic incident over."

Very true, but that wasn't the point. "If we don't invite a guest from Lasgalen, sir, the other nations in the Confederation would probably take offense on King Thranduil's behalf. We may not have much of a diplomatic relationship with him, but we can't afford to anger Rivendell and Lothlorien as well."

"So, what you're telling me is, I have to put King Thranduil on the guest list."

"Yes, sir. But if it's any consolation, it's highly unlikely the King will accept. He doesn't leave the country much these days. Not since his wife died."

"But he'll send someone in his place." The King's expression turned sour again. "Probably that smug prick of a son of his."

"Crown Prince Legolas is usually his official representative these days, sir, yes."

"Do we _have_ to invite him?" the King asked, sounding like a petulant boy trying to keep the classmates he didn't like away from his birthday party.

"I'm afraid we do, sir, yes. I worry if you tried to exclude him, and the Foreign Office got wind of it, the government would almost certainly overrule you." And not politely, Fenbrand feared, which could damage the mostly peaceful relationship between the Head of Government and the Head of State, potentially to the detriment of the whole kingdom.

"The perils of not being an absolute monarch, eh?"

"Indeed, sir."

"Go on, then," the King said, waving curtly at the folder. "Put Barbie on the list."

And now, for the most difficult part. "There is one other sensitive point with the guest list, sir."

The King huffed. "Fenbrand, don't tell me I have to invite Sauron bloody Aleswind as well."

"No, sir. Nothing quite as extreme as that." The new Chancellor of Mordor was an ambitious and forceful man, but even he would know better than to expect an invitation to such an event. "It concerns the Gondorian delegation."

"What about it?" the King asked, frowning again.

"As you know, sir, because of the nature of the event, we're inviting more guests from Gondor than anywhere else."

"Of course."

"Including representatives of some of the higher ranking Gondorian noble houses."

"Yes?"

"Which includes the Princely House of Dol Amroth, sir." It was unthinkable it would be excluded—not only was the Prince of Dol Amroth one of Gondor's leading nobles, he was also one of King Aragorn's staunchest and firmest supporters.

The King's expression went scarily blank. "I see."

"Only four," Fenbrand went on, trying to put his monarch at ease. "Which will almost certainly be Prince Imrahil and his wife, and Hereditary Prince Elphir and his wife. I can't see why it would be anyone else." But Fenbrand knew—even those four would be a strain.

All four of those people had been guests at that fateful dinner eight years ago, when Princess Lothiriel—the Prince of Dol Amroth's only daughter—had refused His Majesty's offer of marriage in honest and no uncertain terms. Fenbrand himself hadn't been at the dinner, still didn't know precisely what the young lady had said, but he'd seen the emotional wounds her words had inflicted. They'd left for Rohan the following morning, cutting their trip short by a day, and the King—only twenty-six at the time, and on the throne for barely four months—had uttered barely a word the whole journey home. Whatever she had said to him, had injured him to his very core.

"Is there any way we can ask them to guarantee it won't be anyone else?" the King quietly asked.

"I would advise against trying to impose any conditions, sir." Hastily, Fenbrand added, "But I'm sure Prince Imrahil will understand. I think it _extremely_ unlikely he would attempt to bring any other family member with him."

"But he could, if he wanted to. Bring any other family member with him, that is."

"Yes, sir, he could," Fenbrand said, thinking it sad that, even now, His Majesty didn't want to say the young lady's name. And sad that his marriage plans had ended as disastrously as they had. In every significant way—beauty, intelligence, lineage, wealth—Princess Lothiriel would have made an _excellent_ Queen.

Sighing, the King leaned back in his chair, resting his head on the rear cushion to look at the ceiling. "We don't really have any choice, do we? I can't refuse to invite Prince Imrahil and his family any more than I can refuse to invite the smug elvish arsehole."

"No, sir, I'm afraid not."

The King sat forward again. "Do whatever you need to do. Let whoever you're working with in Dol Amroth know the members of the Princely House will always be welcome in Rohan as honoured allies and friends." He leaned further over the desk to murmur, "But if you can also politely let them know who we'd rather they _didn't_ bring, I'd very much appreciate it."

"Consider it done, sir."

"Thank you, Fenbrand. What would I _ever_ do without you?"

So many answers came to mind, none of which Fenbrand felt quite daring enough to share. He closed his leather folder over. "That's all I have for you today, Your Majesty."

"Anything interesting in your schedule for the rest of the day?"

"Just more of the usual, sir. A meeting with my staff to schedule future meetings of the Privy Council, a meeting with the Keeper of the Royal Archives to discuss the cost of expanding the main archive room, then a meeting with the communications team to prepare your speeches for some upcoming events."

"I should let you get to it, then." The King rose from his chair, ending the meeting by action as much as by words, knowing Fenbrand couldn't then stay seated himself.

Fenbrand stood, smoothing down the front of his jacket. "I believe Your Majesty has the next few hours for personal use?" A relatively rare event, in a schedule as busy as the King's.

"I do, yes."

"May I ask, do you have any plans?"

"Not yet. Think I might go for a swim, then catch up on some correspondence. Or, I might start that book I've been trying to read."

That final point piqued Fenbrand's interest. He loved to read, usually finished at least two books a month. "Anything I might have heard of, sir? The book, that is?"

"An analysis of the socio-political implications of the Oath of Eorl. I figured, since we're having the big anniversary banquet this year, that I should really understand what the damn thing's all about."

"A wise course of action, sir." And yet another way in which the King differed from his late cousin. For all his many good points, Prince Theodred had never been much of a history student.

"I thought so. But damned if I can read it. I swear, it's so dry, it makes tax law look exciting."

"Perhaps you should try a different author, sir. I could bring you some extremely readable texts on the subject."

"Would you mind?"

Fenbrand dipped his head. "Not at all, sir. I'd be delighted to help."

"Appreciate that, thank you."

The clock on the sideboard chimed the hour, reminding Fenbrand it was time to move on. "The usual time on Monday, sir?"

"The usual time, yes. You know where to find me if anything urgent comes up. Barring that, I'll see you then."


	5. Chapter 5

Once Fenbrand had gone, Eomer closed the lid of his despatch box and locked the box away in his desk. He knew he should work on his papers some more, but whatever was left for today could wait a few hours. It wasn't as if he would ever finish his papers completely—another box-full would arrive at the Palace first thing tomorrow.

What should he do with his three hour break? He had personal paperwork to catch up on, and yes, that damn book about the Oath to read, but the Thenwis thing had really thrown him. And so had the results of that poll, published in The Edoras Times this morning. Why were so many Rohanese people so worried about his marital status? He didn't know if he should be touched or offended by their concern. But at least the poll had shown the monarchy had solid support. The votes in favour of switching the government to a republic had been _embarrassingly_ low.

More than anything right now, he needed some quiet time to think.

He thought about heading down to the pool—he always did plenty of thinking while swimming. But at this time of day, someone else would almost certainly be in it. And Household protocol required anyone else to leave when a person of royal rank arrived. One of the stupider rules—he hated forcing people to leave, which was why he usually swam first thing in the morning when most of the staff were busy elsewhere.

He went to the window to look at the weather. The sky had been murky and grey this morning, but the sun was breaking through the clouds, and the grey was gradually giving way to blue. He checked the thermometer hanging outside—it claimed the temperature was sixteen degrees.

That gave him ideas.

He should be warm enough, if he wore his thicker jacket. And maybe his zip-in thermal layer as well—it might be sixteen here in the city, but it certainly wouldn't be up in the Pass. Not that he intended to ride all the way through—he would turn at the viewpoint car park instead.

It should be safe. So, why the hell not?

He opened the door to the waiting room. "Fastmer, are you there?" he called out.

From the hall, Fastmer appeared. "Of course, Your Majesty. Is there something I can help you with?"

"There is, yes." Eomer smiled, suspecting he was about to ruin Fastmer's whole day. "I think I'd like to go for a ride."

Fastmer's shoulder's slumped. Only slightly, but just enough that Eomer saw it. "Yes, sir," Fastmer said, with a hint of a weary sigh.

"I'll meet everyone in the garage in twenty minutes," Eomer said, knowing Fastmer would need some time to pull an escort team together. "Is that enough time?"

"It should be, sir, yes. And which bike should I ask the garage to prepare for you?" Fastmer said, a tiny hint of hope in his voice.

Sadly, that hope was misplaced. Trying not to grin, Eomer said, "Can you ask them to take the Firefoot out of its paddock stand for me?" It was time to bring the dragon out of her lair, clean the dust and cobwebs out of her scales.

To his credit, Fastmer showed no sign of the irritation Eomer knew his answer must have induced. "The Firefoot," the head guard calmly repeated. "Of course, sir. I'll make sure they have it ready for you." With a quick nod, he turned and went to the phone on the wall, no doubt muttering furious curses under his breath.

Eomer closed and locked his office door, and headed through to his inner suite to change.

As Fastmer marched through the door, five men and three women jumped to their feet.

Fastmer scanned the room, checking how many fully trained riders he had on hand. As always, at least one too few. But it was what it was—he couldn't summon qualified people out of thin air. He pointed at two of the men and one of the women. "Dernbrand, Vonnal, Nedris, check your weapons and go put your riding gear on. The King's taking us for a ride."

"Shouldn't we have at least five of us, sir?" Nedris—always a stickler for the rules—asked.

Fastmer gestured at her colleagues. "Show me one other person in this room who can ride well enough to keep up with the King, I'll happily take them with me as well."

"Sorry, sir," Nedris quietly said. "Didn't mean to question your judgement."

"It's all well, Lieutenant." He wouldn't ever say so out loud, but in his opinion, it wasn't _his_ judgement that deserved to be questioned. "And make sure you wear your thermals," he called out as the three guards departed. "Something tells me, we'll be heading up to the Starkhorn today."

"I saw the forecast for the Pass on the news this morning, sir," said Guthlaf, one of the guards who didn't ride, and who so far had shown no inclination to learn. But even if he did, it would take him years to catch up to the King's level. "It's only going to be eight degrees at the summit, and they said there's still some snow and ice on the ground. You'll need to be careful."

Fastmer shook his head. "His Majesty won't take us that far." If they were heading up to the Pass, they would stop at the viewpoint car park instead. The King never rode any further, not even on a warm summer's day.

Not that Fastmer could blame him. In the King's shoes, he would avoid the stretch of road after the viewpoint as well. A bad road to ride, for various reasons.

Now, where the hell had he left his helmet?

Eomer manoeuvred into his riding jacket, shaking the protective elbow and shoulder cups into place. He'd gone with the intermediate option—waterproof, and thick enough to keep the worst of the mountain wind chill at bay, but not so thick he would overheat in the less chilly sections. Pulling the zip, he went to a window that looked down the valley. As always, the sky above the Starkhorn was roiling with clouds, but there was no moisture falling, that he could see. They should be fine. If the weather turned bad, they could always turn back.

With his cold weather gloves stuffed in his lid, he took the back stairs down to the garage. The place was neither quiet nor still—men and women were moving to-and-fro all over the place, working on various Crown Estate vehicles. He grinned as he saw his sister's car, up on a ramp with all its wheels off and some of its guts hanging out. A man was lying on a wheeled maintenance cart underneath, with only his booted feet sticking out.

Eomer would recognize those boots a mile away. "Freddan, please tell me The Princess Royal hasn't worn through her brake pads again?" he said.

The man on the cart rolled out. He made to get up, until Eomer gestured for him to stay where he was. "The gearbox this time, Your Majesty," Freddan said. "She's been a little bit hard with her gear changes, I think."

"Have you ever been in the car when my sister is driving?" Eomer said.

"No, sir. I'm afraid I've never had that honour."

Honour. Hmm. That was one way to put it. "Well, I have, and let me tell you, describing the way she changes gear as a 'little bit hard' is an understatement so great, it's almost a crime."

Freddan chuckled. "So I've heard, sir."

"I swear, she pulls and pushes the gearstick like she's thinking about disembowelling someone." On most days, probably him.

"Perhaps we should buy her an automatic instead, sir."

Now, that was an excellent idea. "How long before we can get rid of this one?" Eomer asked.

"The lease is due at the end of November."

"When the time comes, let's do that, okay? Get her a car with fewer parts she can break." Although, knowing Eowyn, she would soon find a way to fuck up an automatic as well.

"Very good, sir." Freddan jerked his chin at the helmet, clasped in Eomer's hand. "You heading out on the bike?"

Eomer nodded. "For an hour or so, yes."

"You'll not be heading to the Starkhorn, I hope."

Blessed Valar. Did anyone in this palace not disapprove of his riding choices? "Not sure. Haven't quite decided yet."

"I know it's a lovely road to ride, but I was up there the other day to deliver some parts to the crew at Dunharrow, and the guards on duty at the gate told me it's still not clear at the summit. They said there's black ice all over the place. You'll have to be awfully careful, sir."

"Freddan, when I am ever not awfully careful?"

"Would His Majesty care for the honest answer, or the diplomatic one?"

Eomer tapped the raised hood of the car. "You take care of my sister, Freddan. Let me take care of me."

"Aye, sir. That I will."

Eomer resumed his journey, heading for the maintenance bay right at the very end of the row—the space reserved for things on two wheels. None of the guards had gathered yet, but the Firefoot was waiting for him. She was leaning on her side stand, and her custom, metallic green and gold paint—recently washed and waxed by the looks of it—positively gleamed in the light.

He put his helmet on a shelf to make a quick three-sixty inspection, running his hand over the chiselled tank and along the rigid, angled seat to rest on the waspish rear end. This bike—this one of a kind, customized, made exactly for him bike—was by far the most beautiful piece of machinery Eomer had ever owned.

A tall man with tattooed arms and short reddish-blonde hair emerged from the shadows, wiping his oily hands on a cloth. By way of greeting, he gave a curt nod. "About time you took the poor lassie out. She's been cooped up in here since the end of November."

Would the glorious day ever come when his head mechanic managed to greet him politely?

"Brendal, you _do_ remember, I _am_ the King?" Eomer said.

"I do, sir, yes."

"And that being the King generally keeps me rather busy?"

"If you can find the time to go for a swim, you can find the time to go for a ride."

"You say that, but it's much easier to swim at six o'clock in the morning in January than it is to ride." Especially since the pool was heated, and he always had the thing to himself.

Brendal sighed. "Aye, well. I'll give you that."

"She had any work done since I last rode her?" Eomer circled the bike again, looking for new parts and pieces.

"Nothing special, sir. Just the usual post-winter maintenance tasks. Changed the oil and all the filters, topped up the brake and coolant fluids, cleaned the spark plugs, checked the seals, the brakes and all the lights, cleaned and oiled the chain."

"You checked the pressures?" he asked, tapping on the front tire.

"No, sir. I thought I'd let the King of Rohan take his first proper ride of the year on a half-inflated set of tires."

Marcher sarcasm. Such a joy. "Brendal, you _do_ also remember, I am still legally allowed to have people executed?"

"Really?"

"Yes, Brendal, really. And, as an extra bonus, I'm even allowed to choose how it's done."

"You can't execute me, sir. Who'd take care of your bikes for you then?"

There was that small point, yes. Mechanics of Brendal's talents were as thin on the ground as Rohanese sailors. Eomer kneeled down to check the tread on the rear tire. "How much more do you think I can get out of these?" he said, running his fingers over the rubber, checking he couldn't feel the casing underneath.

"Maybe another two hundred? Two fifty if you treat them nicely?" Which the mechanic almost certainly knew he wouldn't. Brendal gestured at the door to the storage space behind him. "I've got a new pair in the back. We can swap them out whenever you're ready. But when we do, just remember you'll have to scrub them. No silly stunts, and no going out in the wet."

"When do I ever pull silly stunts?" Eomer innocently asked.

Brendal snorted. "You forgetting I'm the one who taught you how to do a stand up wheelie?"

"But you still won't teach me the side standing trick." Eomer knew how it worked—he was itching to try it, had even decided where he would do it, if the chance ever came. Which, given the truly horrible risk it involved, likely wouldn't be anytime soon. Fastmer would probably shoot him as soon as allow him to try it. The end result might be the same.

"Aye, because it'll kill you," Brendal said. "And when Her Royal Highness finds out who told you how to do it, she'll come and kill me as well. And who'll look after your precious wee lassie then?"

"Brendal, if I die riding this thing, nobody will have to look after it, because Her Royal Highness will sell it for scrap." Once she'd taken a sledgehammer to it, of course.

"That she would, aye."

They turned as a cluster of footsteps approached. A few moments later, his cadre of guards appeared—four instead of the ideal five, with Fastmer in the lead. They were all grim-faced, and all clad from head to toe in their armoured, top-of-the-range, two-piece, light grey riding gear. Their jackets bore no royal symbol, but as always, they were all carrying a regulation service weapon.

Arms crossed, Brendal stepped forward, jerking his chin at the five, unmarked, nondescript bikes parked at the other side of the bay. "They've all had a de-winter service, take whichever one you want." He looked to Vonnal, his fellow Marcher, almost as tall as a door, and pointed at the nearest bike. "I jacked up the seat on that one, should be the most comfortable for you."

Vonnal gave a curt nod of thanks.

"They all have a full tank?" Fastmer asked as he zipped up his coat.

Brendal nodded. "Premium. Filled them up all myself."

Eomer turned to Fastmer. "The usual arrangement, I assume?"

Fastmer nodded. "Nedris and Vonnal will go out on point, Dernbrand and I will watch your six."

"It's just a motorcycle ride, Fastmer. Not a military operation."

"Of course, sir," Fastmer said, in that scarily neutral tone that told Eomer exactly what his head guard thought of his comment. But Fastmer was an ex-Army man. Maybe, for him, everything was some kind of military operation.

"Where are we heading to, sir?" Vonnal asked. If he was up front, he needed to know—he couldn't just lead them out in some random direction.

"I thought we'd head to the Starkhorn today," Eomer said. "Ride some of the Horse's Tail."

"It'll be tricky," Brendal warned. "It's only the middle of April. There'll still be snow and ice at the summit."

"We're not going as far as the summit." If he went to the summit, he would have to see the road to Dunharrow.

"To the car park at the viewpoint, sir?" Nedris said.

Eomer nodded. "I'm just going to shake the end of the tail. Not the whole thing."

"Just make sure it doesn't shake you right back," Brendal said.

Eomer jammed his earplugs in, pulled his helmet over his head, pushed his neck scarf into the gap around the bottom and fastened the strap under his chin. He waited for the four guards to do the same. Once they were all suited up, Fastmer raised a hand to switch on his helmet intercom unit. Static buzzed in Eomer's ears; a few seconds later, the channel kicked in.

"Can you hear me, Your Majesty?" an echoing version of Fastmer's voice said.

"Loud and clear," Eomer said, giving his guards two thumbs up. He pulled on his gloves, went to his bike and threw his leg over the seat. As always, he winced, hating what the bike did to his balls. It might be a beautiful piece of machinery, but it was living proof that beauty and comfort didn't always go hand in hand. Holding the brake lever in, he pulled the Firefoot up straight, kicked the side stand away and reached out with his left hand to turn the key to the ON position. The dash sprang to life, the bright green light telling him the bike was in neutral. He pressed the starter button with his right thumb, and the engine sprang to life as well. And Mother of Bema, what an amazing sound she made. How could an engine—something fashioned from carbon and steel—sound like it was actually purring? But he knew she wouldn't purr for long. Once he got her out on the straight, her inline-four would roar like a mighty dragon instead.

He watched as the guards slid their pistols into the special quick-release holsters Brendal had installed on the tanks. Once they were ready, he pulled in the clutch, kicked the shifter down into first, swapped his clutch foot out for his brake, and nodded at Nedris and Vonnal, letting them know they could move out whenever they were ready to go. Daylight streamed into the bay as the armoured door at the end rolled up. Eomer knew, down at the end of the access road, the gates would shortly be sliding open as well.

Nedris and Vonnal slowly moved away. Eomer pulled out of his space, carefully slotting in behind the two guards. He checked his mirrors, saw Fastmer and Dernbrand ride out behind him.

As a tightly-formed unit, they rode down the drive and through the now-open gate, making the guards on duty snap to attention, catching some tourists and passers-by unawares. As quickly as they could, knowing this was the most exposed part of the route, Nedris and Vonnal led them down the wide, winding road that took them out of the Citadel Hill. At the bottom, they signalled left, heading for the motorway that led to the mountains.

Sensibly, the two lead riders set a good pace, probably knowing that if they didn't, Eomer would overtake and set a better pace of his own. Soon, they left the city behind them, heading into the wide, golden valley beyond. When they reached the end of the city speed limit, Eomer tapped the intercom and said, "Let's open this up a bit. Shake the winter cobwebs out." Nedris and Vonnal took the prompt, twisting their throttles and speeding away. Eomer hunched over his tank, twisting himself, feeling all sixteen of the Firefoot's valves jump to respond underneath him.

The landscape around him turned to a blur. Metre by metre, the snow-covered peak of the Starkhorn approached.

He opened his throttle again, pushing the bike past the speed limit. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he remembered the promise he'd made to his sister. Ahead of him, the two lead bikes grew larger in his vision, then smaller again as their riders adjusted and picked up their speed, no doubt realizing Eomer was pushing them on.

All he could see was sky and road, all he could hear was the wind rushing by, all he could feel was his own heart beating.

Never mind being King of Rohan.

This, here?

This was _really_ living.


	6. Chapter 6

STARKHORN PASS - SNOW AND ICE AT SUMMIT, the electronic message board at the side of the off ramp read.

Up ahead, Nedris and Vonnal eased off the gas, no doubt planning to pull over to check what Eomer wanted to do.

Eomer knew _exactly_ what he wanted to do. He hadn't ridden out all this way just to turn round here and go home. And as he'd already explained to at least four people, he wasn't planning to ride to the summit—he would stop at the viewpoint turnout instead. But he'd come out to get his knee down today, and there was no better place to put his knee down than on the curves of The Horse's Tail.

He pulled in the clutch, dropped the shifter down into fifth, opened the throttle and sped past the guards. A panicked voice squawked in his ear—probably Fastmer, pleading with him to slow down and wait. But there was no danger to him here; he literally had the road to himself. He opened the throttle some more, pushing the revs, grinning as he heard and felt the RTEC system kick in. The dragon was belching flames now.

He checked his mirrors, not surprised to see his escorts falling away. The bikes his guards were riding were fast, but this was a Firefoot S1000RR with a custom fuel injection unit. Nothing on earth short of a racing bike could hope to catch him out on the flat. But Fastmer would know where he was going; they would regroup at the car park ahead.

He eased off the throttle, threw the bike through the first curve, as always, looking ahead through the bend instead of down at the road, leaning over as far as he could, until he felt his knee pad scraping the ground. Back to upright, power out of the apex, open the throttle along the brief straight, ease off to lean into the corner again, but this time, in the other direction. Again and again, through what felt like a never-ending series of curves. But he knew there were twenty-three of them in total between the junction and the viewpoint, and he knew every one of them like the back of his hand, from where they'd laid the seams to repair the frost damage, to what type of outer guard rail there was, to what way the camber ran.

Just as he was really getting into the zone, the green and white sign for the viewpoint car park appeared. He eased off the gas, dropping to a reasonable speed, waiting to see how long it would take for his guards to appear in his mirrors. Surprisingly, they still hadn't caught up by the time the car park came into view. Eomer pushed his turn signal on, kicked down through the gears until he reached second, turned off the road and slowly trundled into a space. One near the end, with nobody close—something his guards could easily block. But he couldn't see there being a need—apart from an empty car right at the other end of the lot, the car park was silent and still.

Once he was off his bike, he pulled off his gloves, undid his strap and wiggled the helmet off his head, wincing as it caught his right ear. As he set the helmet on the ground, the sound of four engines drew near. A few seconds later, his escort guards pulled off the road, moving to surround him in an enclosing, protective design.

Even before his head guard swung off his bike, Eomer could tell Fastmer was livid with him. The guard's shoulders were tense, and he was slow in pulling off his gloves, one deliberate finger at a time.

Fastmer's helmet came off. The look he shot Eomer's way could have frozen a balrog dead in its tracks. He put his helmet on the ground, and turned to his lieutenants. "Check the surroundings, and set a four car perimeter, please," he said. "Don't stop anyone from parking, but make them park at the other end."

The junior guards nodded and moved away, Nedris going to scan the road, Vonnal loping across the car park to peer through the window of the lone car, Dernbrand making sure the walkway down to the viewpoint was clear. They flipped up their visors, but they didn't take their helmets off or unclip their service weapons. They obviously didn't think they would be staying in the car park for long.

"Is this the part where you tell me off for speeding away?" Eomer said, trying to puncture the wall of tension radiating from his head guard.

Fastmer shook his head. "This is the part where I ask you if you would like me to resign."

"Why the hell would I ever want that?" Eomer said. He'd only ridden ahead on his bike; he could understand Fastmer being a little bit mad, but threatening to hand in his notice seemed like an over-reaction to him.

"Because I don't see why I should waste my time trying to protect a man who doesn't want to be protected."

"Fastmer, it's not that I don’t want to be protected."

"Then, what is it you _do_ want, sir?" Fastmer's tone was cold and scornful. "Enlighten me, please."

Eomer shrugged and picked a stray leaf out of the Firefoot's screen. "Just a little bit of freedom, really."

"And you can't have a little bit of freedom riding at ninety instead of one-forty?"

Why couldn't anyone understand, it wasn't as simple as that? He couldn't be totally free at ninety. He needed the liberation only an open throttle could bring. "I just like the challenge of riding at speed."

"I know you do, sir. I'm just concerned about the risk." Fastmer gestured at the road behind him. "This is one of the most dangerous roads in the whole country. It kills at least ten people a year. There's always some kind of surface water, sometimes snow and ice as well. There are cracks and seams, and it has adverse camber in several places. There's a sheer cliff on one side, and a sheer drop on half of the others. And it winds so badly, every second corner is blind."

"I know that," Eomer said, feeling his temper beginning to rise. He couldn't stand it when people told him something he already knew, especially in the form of a well-meaning lecture. He was a thirty-three-year-old man, not a thirteen-year-old boy. "I've been riding this road for almost twenty years. And I've never once made an error on it."

"With all due respect, sir, that's exactly what your father once said."

In an instant, Eomer's temper turned hard and cold. "If I were you, Fastmer, I'd be very careful about what you say next." Nobody talked about his father that way. _Nobody._ Not Fastmer. Not Colwenna. Even Eowyn approached the topic with care.

"Your Majesty, did you know, I originally joined the King's Guard at twenty-two, straight out of Third School, served for six months, then left to join the Army instead? Came back later once I'd done my ten years?"

Eomer shook his head.

"Of course not. Why the hell would you?" There was no respect in Fastmer's voice now, only mocking disdain. "Do you know _why_ I left the King's Guard after six months?" Fastmer didn't give him a chance to respond. "Because when I started, I was assigned to the floating unit. So, it was my job to go wherever I was needed most, to guard any guests who were visiting the Palace, or other members of the family, or top up another unit if they needed more help."

A standard approach—they still did that now—the new recruits started with the floating unit and slowly worked their way up to better assignments.

Fastmer took a step in—Eomer could tell from the set of his jaw and the look in his eyes that his head guard was barely keeping his temper in check. "The last assignment I ever had, before I left to join the Army, was to escort your father up to Dunharrow."

"Fastmer…"

"Your father insisted on driving himself, even though he was supposed to use a staff driver. And I was twenty-two, still the newest guard on the roster, just some snot-nosed kid from the Wold, so who the hell was I to tell the high and mighty Earl of Aldburg, the husband of the King's favourite sister, what he should or shouldn't do?"

Eomer had heard enough; he already knew where the story was going. "Stop talking. _Right_ now."

"The drive up to Dunharrow, that was absolutely fine. But the drive back down, to the main junction"—Fastmer turned to gesture in the junction's direction—"that was the most terrifying ten minutes of my whole life." Fastmer moved closer again, his hands tightening into fists. "Because your father drove the way you ride, with no concern for anyone or anything, thinking he was invincible, and that nothing would ever happen to him."

"Nothing _did_ happen to him," Eomer spat. "Or to you. You obviously made it home in one piece. You're still alive, aren't you?"

But his father wasn't.

Smiling sadly, Fastmer nodded. "I am, yes. Do you want to know why?"

"Not really, no."

"When I got back to the Palace, I went to my boss, told him what kind of risk your father was, and he told me to either live with it or leave." Fastmer shrugged. "So I left. I resigned from the Guard the very next day." He kicked a pebble across the ground. "Six months later, your father was dead. And so was your mother. They were found in a burned out car at the bottom of the ravine underneath the road to Dunharrow. Your father was driving. He was going too fast, lost control, and skidded off at one of the corners. Your father's driving habits killed him. _And_ your mother." Eyes blazing, Fastmer reached out to poke Eomer in the chest, firmly enough to make him step away slightly. "Watching you on that _fucking_ bike makes me wonder, how long it's going to be before your riding habits kill you."

A cold ball of fury formed in Eomer's guts. Words weren't good enough now; he wanted to lash out with his fists and beat Fastmer into the ground. "You're so far out of line right now, it's not even funny."

Fastmer simply smirked. "I suppose I am, yes. But it's all good. When we get back to the Palace, assuming you manage not to kill yourself on the way home, you can exercise your Gods-given right to fire me." He bent over to pick up his lid. "Save me the bother of even writing the fucking letter." He moved off to round up his guards. "Nedris! Dernbrand! Vonnal! Fall in! We're moving out!" He pulled his gloves and helmet on, and went to ready his bike.

Eomer was so angry he wasn't even sure he could ride. The first two rules Brendal had taught him—never ride angry, and always wear the right gear. But he knew they couldn't stay in the car park for long. This was a popular tourist spot—a car was bound to pull in at some point.

Right on cue, a car trundled off the road, pulling into a space at the end to disgorge a gaggle of kids. One of the children glanced their way, or rather, glanced at their bikes, the rest paid not the slightest bit of attention to them. The three junior guards came jogging over, moving into a shielding position, watching the new arrivals like hawks. The family bustled off, some heading to the toilet block in the trees, most rushing out to the walkway to admire the view of the valley.

Eomer watched them go. How very normal their lives must be. No duties or responsibilities, other than to each other. No overprotective bodyguards, no nagging younger sisters, no bastard thieving elves, no power-hungry cousins.

Some days, he dearly wished he could be normal again.

Slowly but surely, Eomer's fury drained away. He still wanted nothing more than to beat Fastmer to a pulp, but he knew he had to let it go, if he was going to make it back to Edoras in one piece. If he rode angry, he would smear himself into the first cliff he saw.

He picked up his helmet, pulled it on, fastened it up and jammed his hands into his gloves. He left the intercom switched off. He had nothing to say to his guards right now other than 'shut the fuck up and stay out of my way'.

He swung his leg over the bike, brought up the stand and paddled back with his feet, reversing the Firefoot out of its space until he had enough room to turn it around. Once he was facing the right way, he fired up the ignition, and without waiting for his guards to indicate they were ready, kicked it from neutral down into first, opened the throttle, dumped the clutch and raced away. He felt the front wheel try to lift up until the anti-wheelie system kicked in, bringing him safely back down to earth. He didn't stop to check if his escorts were matching his pace.

Right now, Fastmer and his guards could suck it.

Out on the restaurant's heated terrace, Cenwen heard the King coming.

So did some of the other staff. "Here he comes," someone shouted from behind the bar.

Some of the locals who knew what that meant stood up or moved to the railing, trying to find a good view.

The woman Cenwen was serving frowned. "I'm sorry, here _who_ comes?" she said. Not a local—from somewhere near the Sea of Rhûn, based on what she was doing to her vowels.

"The King, ma'am," Cenwen explained. "He's been out on his motorcycle today, now he's on his way home."

"The King of Rohan is coming _here?"_ the woman said, eyes going wide in surprise as she turned to search the highway below.

"Almost, yes." And what the hell kind of question was _that?_ The terrace the woman was sitting on looked across to the Citadel Hill, on top of which sat the tumbling mess of the Meduseld Palace. Of _course_ the King was coming here. Where the hell else would the man be going?

"But how can you tell?" the woman asked.

Cenwen cupped an ear. "You hear that noise?" she said. "That high-pitched whining sound?" By her reckoning, he was still a few clicks away. It was amazing how far the sound of the engine travelled, especially on a clear day.

Frowning, the woman cocked her head. "Yes?"

 _"That's_ the King's bike."

"But how do you know it's him? It could be anyone, surely?"

Cenwen grinned. "He has a very special motorbike, ma'am. A one of a kind. Trust me, it's him."

Sure enough, a few moments later, the King's custom Firefoot S1000RR—a bike Cenwen would give her right arm to own, and maybe even her right leg as well—came tearing down Queen Morwen Drive, going at least twenty over the limit, its custom, metallic, green and gold finish glittering in the afternoon sun.

The woman laughed in delight. "Wait until I tell everyone I saw the _King."_ She gasped as the bike sped towards the roundabout at the end of the road. "But isn't he going too fast for the junction?"

If it was anyone else, they would be, yes. But this was Eomer of Rohan—a man who really knew how to ride.

As he approached the entrance to the roundabout, he eased off the gas and shifted down, relying on the engine to slow him instead of touching the brakes. She could hear him dropping from gear to gear, and the whine of the engine briefly rising before falling again. At the line, he didn't come to a stop. Instead, he found a sequence of gaps in the oncoming traffic and expertly wove his way through it, leaving a line of pissed-off drivers to slam on their brakes and blare their horns at him. He threw the bike into the circle, leaning so far over into the curve, Cenwen was sure he was going to slide out. Just when she thought gravity was going to get the better of him, he pulled it up to power out of the lean, taking the exit that led up the Hill.

A few minutes later, a group of four other riders appeared, all wearing the same neutral gear, all riding the same nondescript bikes.

"And who are they?" the woman asked, pointing a manicured finger at them.

"I believe they're the King's bodyguards, ma'am."

The woman scoffed. "Well, they're not much good to him all the way back there, now, are they? What if someone had tried to run the King off the road? How on earth would they have protected him then?"

The woman made a good point. "I suppose they wouldn't," Cenwen murmured.

Which made her wonder—what the hell was His Blessed Majesty playing at now?

The sound of a straining motorbike engine made Duncan turn to the road.

He didn't see much—a quick flash of green and gold—but he saw enough to recognize an expensive model and make. It was heading uphill, so it must be the King, thrashing the shit out of his fancy custom crotch rocket.

The poor thing. How it probably wished it was a thoroughbred stallion instead, so it could throw its rider over a fence, then bite him on his impatient, irascible arse.

Just as well Solwen hadn't moved back to Edoras yet. If she was standing here now instead of him, she would be marching up to the Meduseld Palace to give His Petulant Majesty a piece of her motorbike-loving mind. And not the courteous piece, at that.

But that was his daughter to a 't'. She'd never been one to not say something that had to be said, or not do something that had to be done, just because of protocol and etiquette rules.

As the ongoing business with her Ban proved. But Bema (and the King's mood) willing, that whole mess would be over soon…

Eomer opened the throttle again, forcing the Firefoot up the hill at full speed. The gates were closed when he arrived. Hardly surprising, given one of his escorts usually rode on ahead to let the guards know he was on his way in.

He brought the bike to a skidding stop and leaned on the horn, in no mood to be patient now. He saw someone rush to the booth; a few seconds later, the security bollards came down and the gates started to trundle apart. As soon as he had enough room, he dumped the clutch and raced through the gap. He took the right fork at the divide, aiming onto the narrower road that led to the garage. He dropped his speed, but not by much, forcing a startled pedestrian to jump back out of his way.

Thankfully, the garage door was already up—no need to start on the horn again. He rode up the ramp and leaned forward over the forks as he slammed the rear brake on, allowing the whole back end to skip out. The bike slewed into the empty bay, coming to a dramatic, noisy, brake-burning halt.

Brendal appeared from his office. "Everything okay?" he asked, gesturing at the bike.

Eomer killed the ignition, yanked off his helmet and gloves and stuffed the latter into the former. "Everything's fine." He kicked out the stand and swung off the bike, then pulled out the keys and threw them to the mechanic. "Clean her up and put the new tires on. Have her ready for next week."

Without waiting for Brendal to answer, he turned and stormed away, heading for the door that led into the palace. Ahead of him, garage workers scrambled aside or jumped to stand to attention and nod respectfully as he passed. Eomer kept his eyes down, ignoring them all. He pushed through the door at full speed, deliberately allowing it to slam shut behind him.

Brendal watched the King storm off. What the _fuck_ was wrong with His Majesty now?

Freddan strolled over, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Is it just me, or is someone in a bit of a snit?"

More than a bit, was Brendal's impression. Had something happened out on the ride? Had some arsehole in a car who didn't know how to use his mirrors cut the King off and almost smeared him into the ground?

Fastmer would know. But where the bloody hell was he?

A few seconds later, Brendal's question was answered, as Fastmer, Dernbrand, Nedris and Vonnal rolled one by one up the ramp. He fell in behind Fastmer's bike, waiting for the guard to come to a stop.

Fastmer flipped up his visor, waved at the Firefoot in the corner. "He's back, then."

"A few minutes ago, aye." Brendal gestured at the door to the stairs. "He's away off upstairs already. Think he's in a bit of a mood, he barely said a civil word to me. Did something happen while you were out?"

"That's one way to put it," Fastmer said. He pulled the shifter into neutral, killed the ignition and put his feet down, stabilizing himself enough to reach up and pull off his helmet.

"What happened?" Brendal said.

"When we got to the turn-off for the Pass, he opened up and took off on us. Left us all choking on fumes."

Brendal sighed. This wasn't the first time the King had slipped his traces, likely wouldn't be the last. "When'd you catch up with him?"

"Not until the viewpoint turnout."

Brendal winced. It was ten miles from the turn-off to the viewpoint—ten miles of twisting, turning, reverse camber corners in which anyone could appear, and anything could happen. And not just people with ill intent—it could be something as simple as a wandering deer, or an inexperienced driver, not paying attention to the demands of the road. "Did you say something to him?" he asked.

"We had a conversation, yes." Fastmer set his helmet on the tank and reached up to scrub his hair. "Which ended with me reminding him the road killed his parents as well."

Brendal groaned; this was _bad._ If there was one thing you didn't do in the King's presence, it was talk about how and where his parents had died. "You might as well go back to your office and write up your resignation letter. There's no way he's going to let you stay on now."

Fastmer kicked the stand down, balanced his helmet and swung off the bike. "Don't worry. He made it clear he's already fired me." He pulled off his gloves and threw them onto a nearby shelf. "But it's for the best. He thinks he knows how to protect himself better than I do, so he'll be better off without me."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I've had enough," Fastmer vowed. "I'm not wasting anymore time trying to protect a man who doesn't want to be protected."

This wasn't just bad; this was a steaming bucket of crap. And the problem with steaming buckets of crap was that when they hit the fan, the blowback tended to splatter everyone standing nearby.

There was only one person in the whole building who could stop what was coming next.

Brendal strode past the King's bike, heading back into his office. He picked up the phone to dial Colwenna's extension.

If she couldn't sort this, _nobody_ could.

He'd ordered the guards to shut both doors, but Colwenna knew all of the Meduseld's secrets, so she had another way in.

She found him in his sitting room, on the couch, working through his government papers again, the open despatch box on one side, a growing pile of freshly-signed documents on the other.

Piece by piece, she gathered up his riding clothes from where he'd abandoned them on a chair and took them through to his walk-in closet to put them away in all the right places. At least it was only riding clothes this time, and not some attractive young lady's scanty, see-through undergarments…

"You didn't have to do that," he said when she emerged. Without looking at her, he added, "I would have taken care of them later."

"Yes, you're usually fairly good at tidying up the messes you've made."

His shoulders slumped and his pen briefly stopped before going back into action again. "Colwenna, whatever lecture you've come here to give me, please don't," he told her stiffly. "I've already heard one from Fastmer. I'm not in the mood to hear one from you as well."

"Don't talk to me about _moods,"_ she snapped, stepping forward, feeling her temper flare. King or not, boss or not, she was about to give this idiot man a piece of her mind. "Your behaviour today was _inexcusable."_

He sighed. "You've spoken with Fastmer, then."

"And with Nedris, Vonnal and Dernbrand as well."

"And Fastmer told you what he said?"

"He did, yes." With fury flashing in his grey eyes, vowing to hand in his notice that night and never set foot in the Palace again.

"I want him gone," the King declared. "If he won't resign, I'll fire him myself."

Her own inner fury surged. "Eomer Eomundson, you will do _absolutely_ no such thing!" She went to snatch the pen from his hand. "And you will do me the courtesy of looking at me when I am speaking to you!"

He raised blazing eyes to her. "You go too far."

"For what? My age? My position? My _place?"_ she spat. "Am I not bowing low enough for you?"

"I don't expect you to bow to me, but whether you like it or not, I _am_ the King."

"Aye, that you are. And a spoiled brat of a King, at that." She knew she shouldn't, but she had to say it. It would either bring him right to his senses, or make the problem ten times as bad. "If your mother was here, she would thrash you into next week for your insolence and your lack of manners."

"Don't talk about my mother," he said, his voice low and scarily calm.

"I will talk about her whenever I please, however I please, to whomever I please! She was my friend for fourteen years before you were even born! You don't own her. She was never just yours to remember, and never will be! Other people loved her as well!"

And missed her as well, so _very_ much…

As she'd hoped, that took the gallop out of his stride. "I know that," he said in a more conciliatory tone. "But I still don't want you to talk about her. _Or_ my father." He grabbed the pile of papers he'd signed, stuffed them into the box and rose to carry the box to his desk. "And I still want Fastmer gone."

Mother of Bema; this man was as stubborn as a Keveleon mule. "Did you not hear a single word I just said?"

"I heard everything you just said. But I'm not paying attention to any of it." He dropped the box on the desk with a thud. "When I need your advice, I'll ask for it. And right now, I don't, so I'd appreciate it if you'd just shut the hell up and go away."

Before she could stop herself, she rushed in and her hand flew out, striking him soundly across the face. He stumbled back, raising his hand to his wounded cheek, eyes wide, dumbfounded shock etched into his face.

"Aye, it's been a long time since anyone took their hand to you, hasn't it?"

"I could have you thrown out of the Palace for that."

"You go right ahead, child. Get rid of Fastmer, get rid of me, oh, and don't forget, probably Bregdan as well, because there's not a chance he'll stay on if I leave. See how many of your personal problems that fixes. Or, you could get your stubborn royal head out of your stubborn royal _arse,_ swallow your pride and do the right thing."

"And what's that?"

She stamped her foot. "Apologize!"

"To _Fastmer?"_

"And to the other three guards as well."

He scrunched his nose. "What the hell did I do to them?"

"Vonnal has asked to be released from his protective riding duties. He says he doesn't want to ride with you anymore."

"Why?"

"Because he's _scared,"_ Colwenna said. And Bema, who could blame him? "Scared for you, and scared for himself. He's a good rider, and he knows the roads around Edoras as well as any native son, but you push him too far. He came in from that ride today, went off to change, Guthlaf found him ten minutes later, crying in the changing room. _Crying,_ Your Majesty. A thirty-four-year-old man from one of the toughest of the old Marcher clans, with ten years of front-line Army service behind him. Crying like his heart was breaking."

His eyes fell to the floor. "I'm sorry. I had no idea," he murmured.

She clenched her fists, fighting to keep her cool. "Of course you didn't! Because you were too busy stomping off in a selfish, childish huff to stop and think about what impact your actions have on other people! And that is not the kind of man your father or mother were trying to raise you to be!"

"Colwenna, please don't talk about my parents," he said, but softly this time, with stricken eyes and shoulders slumping, begging now instead of commanding. "I'm not trying to keep them to myself. I know my mother was your best friend. I just…" He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes.

Her anger drained away. "You miss them," she gently said.

"All the damn time." When he dropped his hands; the corners of his eyes were moist.

She set his pen on his desk and took his hands in hers to squeeze them. "We _all_ miss them, Your Majesty. We _all_ wish they were still alive."

"I know."

"Which is why you have to acknowledge that what you did today was wrong."

He sighed, hung his head and nodded.

"I know you probably don't want to hear this, but Fastmer was right. Your father, he was a good man, a kind, loving, generous man, and he would never have done anything to hurt you or your mother or sister." She released his hands, her own formed into fists again. "But he was an _idiot_ in that car of his. The night your parents died, the moment I found out how it had happened, even before we had all the facts, I knew, I just _knew,_ you father's driving was at least partly to blame." If not completely to blame. Yes, there had been ice on the road, but not so much it would have troubled someone driving at a sensible speed.

His answer was silence.

"Unfortunately, you've inherited that foolishness from him. You ride the way he drove. And if you're not careful, your foolishness is going to kill you, just as surely as your father's killed your mother and him." She took a step back. "But at least it'll be easier when it's your turn."

He gave her a quizzical frown.

"At least when you kill yourself on that road, it'll _only_ be you. You've no beautiful wife to take with you. And no precious children to leave behind."

His shoulders slumped again. "Colwenna, please, not the marriage thing again. I've had enough of it from Eowyn this week already."

"Aye, so I've heard. And you'll likely keep having it, from all of us, until you bloody well do something about it."

"I _am_ doing something about it."

She'd heard about his promise as well. "You tell everyone you are, but I'm not entirely sure I want to believe you."

"Why on earth not?"

"Because you don't always behave like a man who understands what his responsibilities are."

He barked a sardonic laugh. "Colwenna, trust me, I understand exactly what my responsibilities are. They're the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I think about before I fall asleep. There's not a minute of the day that goes by when I'm not painfully aware of them."

She already knew what his next words would be. "Except when you're out on the bike."

"Except when I'm out on the bike." He sighed. "When I'm on the straight, and I open the throttle, it's like"—he squeezed his eyes shut and a smile ghosted across his lips—"it's like I'm _free."_

Which meant he usually felt like he wasn't. And nobody should feel as if their life was a prison. Not even a King. "Nobody's asking you to give up riding it, child. We just want you to ride it safely."

"I do—"

She raised a finger, cutting him off. "Don't you _dare_ tell me that lie. Not me, of all people. I know better. I deserve better."

"I know you do."

"And so does Fastmer."

He fell into sullen silence again. But she took it as a good sign—it meant he knew he was in the wrong. When he thought he was right, he would argue until the sky above the Starkhorn cleared and the final eored came home.

"There's no point in talking to Fastmer tonight. You're both too angry"—and both too bloody stubborn as well—"it'll just blow up all over again. But you'll speak to him first thing in the morning, you'll admit your behaviour was wrong, you'll apologize to him, and to Nedris, Dernbrand and Vonnal as well."

"I should sell the Firefoot, shouldn't I?"

Mother of Varda, and he thought his sister was the dramatic one? "Don't be so melodramatic. There's no need to sell it. Just don't ride it like you're trying to find The Lost Road." She went to gather a mug and plate from the coffee table. "You couldn't sell the damn thing anyway. You'd have to strip out so many illegal add-ons, there'd be nothing left of a bike to sell."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't sass me, child. You might be the King, but I've been looking after you since you were born. I know _exactly_ what you've asked that Marcher pirate down in the garage to do."

"Not sure Brendal would thank you for calling him a pirate."

"He's lucky I'd be so polite. There's a lot worse things I could call him."

That made him grin. "You _do_ have a rather colourful vocabulary when you get going."

And she'd taught him every swear word he knew. Including the worst of the horse-themed expletives…

"So, it's agreed then?" she said. "You'll apologize to Fastmer tomorrow? Put this foolish nonsense to rights?"

He nodded, solemn again. "I will. I promise."

"Good." Mug and plate in hand, she turned to leave.

"Colwenna?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Thank you. For putting my head on straight. And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset anyone. Including you."

"That's the problem, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Eomer, child, you never do."

Algrin was in her office.

As she arrived, he rose from the chair. "So?" he asked, doing up his suit jacket.

She told him what he wanted to hear. "It's all taken care of. The King will apologize to the guards tomorrow." And to Fastmer in particular—she would personally make sure of that.

Algrin breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank Bema," he murmured. He dipped his head in her direction. "And thank _you,_ Colwenna. Sometimes, I wonder what the Household would do without you."

"You'd all have to find somebody else to roast His Majesty's stubborn arse for him."

Algrin grimaced. "When you put it like that, it makes me glad I wasn't there to see it."

"Why's that?"

"Because he's the _King,_ Colwenna. We both know he was in the wrong, but roasting his arse, as you so tactfully put it, that's bordering on being disrespectful, don't you think?"

"So was what he said to Fastmer." But in Algrin's mind, Fastmer was 'only' a guard, so probably less deserving of his respect. "And aren't you forgetting, I cleaned that arse for him before he was old enough to clean it himself?" She went to her sideboard to pour herself a measure of sherry. "And that I'm still cleaning up some of his messes after him now?"

Algrin cleared his throat. "Yes, well, the less said about _those_ duties, the better, I think."

Irritation surged in her veins. Typical constipated man, dealing with an uncomfortable issue by trying to pretend it didn't exist. Fenbrand, Algrin, Fastmer, the King—they were all as bloody bad as each other. "Algrin, I will serve that man until I draw my last breath, the same way I served his mother until she drew hers, but if you think for a moment I'm going to get into all that nonsense bowing and scraping just because he's the King, you've come to the wrong place. You can take your concerns to Fenbrand instead. He'll bow and scrape enough for everyone in the whole palace."

"He's a good man, Colwenna," said Algrin softly. "He means well."

She sighed. "Yes, I'm sure he does." If he could just mean well in a slightly less unctuous way…

"And I'm sure you'll be interested to know, Fenbrand's the one who figured it out. Why the King's been in such a bad mood, I mean."

"It's because his sister's nagging him to get married again. You know how he gets when people talk about weddings. He's like a river turtle. You can practically hear him pulling into his shell."

"Not _just_ that," Algrin said in a know-it-all tone that irritated her down to her bones. "Fenbrand told me earlier, there's trouble brewing with Thenwis Colafell as well."

A cold ball formed in Colwenna's stomach. "Not the succession nonsense again?"

Grim-faced, Algrin nodded.

She threw back her sherry, reached for the bottle to pour out another. "I thought we were done with all that nonsense when Thendred died."

"Apparently not."

"If she's planning some kind of petition, His Majesty's mood isn't going to get better anytime soon." It was probably going to get even worse; she would have to keep a closer eye on him. _And_ on Eowyn as well. She might not have her brother's burdens, but that didn't mean she didn't have any at all. Colwenna's first task in that regard would be making sure the Princess Royal didn't find out about today's little spat. It would infuriate the King's sister to the point of setting the siblings against each other, and if legal trouble was on the way, they needed to have each other's backs.

"I'm just glad you're always able to make him see sense," Algrin said. "The King, I mean. Bema knows what we'll all do when you eventually decide to retire."

Retire? Now, there was an interesting thought. "There's no need to worry just yet. I'm not even sixty, and I'm in excellent health, so I'm not going anywhere anytime soon." She couldn't retire. Not before the King married at least. Once he'd found a wife, she might consider stepping down. Depending on who that wife was, of course. If he married a nice but vacuous thing, he might need her around a little while longer.

Algrin nodded and made for the door. As he laid his hand on the handle, he paused and turned back. "What would you have done today? If the King had refused to apologize to Fastmer, I mean?"

"I would have kept roasting his arse until he saw sense." And maybe even kicked it around his sitting room a few times as well. She wasn't averse to using physical threats to get what she wanted, not even when the target was a crowned head. "And if that didn't work, I'd have threatened him with the nuclear option."

Algrin gave a knowing smile. "The Princess Royal, you mean?"

Colwenna scoffed. "Oh, no. Nothing as simple as _that."_ She finished her sherry and put her glass on the shelf.

"Who, then?"

"I'd have given his granny Steelsheen a call." And she called it the nuclear option for a good reason, because once you'd invoked it, you couldn't cancel it or take it back—the only thing you could do was take cover and hope you survived both the fallout and the explosion. "Let her do the arse-kicking for me."

Algrin smiled. "Colwenna, have I ever told you, how glad I am we're on the same side?"

Just a pity Thenwis Colafell wasn't…


	7. Chapter 7

**Friday April 17, 2020**

Thenwis stood at the window—behind the sheers and off to the side so as not to be seen from the street—her hands clasped in front of her stomach, perfectly silent, perfectly still, watching the road in front of the house.

In the elegant sitting room behind her, the Lasgalene carriage clock on the mantel yielded a gentle quartet of chimes. Outside, as if summoned by the delicate sound, a car slowed and pulled in at the curb.

Her illustrious visitor had arrived.

Even if she hadn't already known what he drove, she would have guessed the vehicle was his. The fanciest, most expensive version of a luxury, high-end model, with seven-spoke alloy rims, a custom, silver, chroma finish and tinted windows to keep out the light. Or, more likely, to keep the riff-raff he hated from peering in.

She wondered if the windows were made of bullet-proof glass. Not that there was any need for them, since Edoras was one of the safest cities on the whole planet, but it seemed like the kind of pointless vanity statement the owner of the car would make.

As she watched, the black suit and tie-wearing driver exited the car and went to open the rear curbside door, respectfully dipping his head at the middle-aged man who climbed out. The man was shorter and stouter than she remembered, and his once thick, reddish-blond hair was starting to thin at the sides, but in most other ways, he hadn't changed. He was wearing a custom Hergild suit that must have cost him as much as his car, and his every gesture was intended to let the world know he was one of Rohan's anointed.

She turned as the door to the sitting room opened, but it was only her mum, coming to tell her something she already knew.

"He's here," was all her mum said.

"I see that, yes."

Eldwis came to stand beside her, brows gathering in concern, her green eyes searching Thenwis's face. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she said.

"Of course I am." Thenwis pulled a frown of her own. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because once you start this, you'll have to keep going," her mum explained. "It's not the kind of thing you can easily turn around and walk away from."

"It's fine, mum. I know what I'm doing."

And even if she didn't, Thenwis had no intention of walking away. She was going to start this, and see it through to the bitter, triumphant end. By the time she was done, her beloved cousins up in the Palace wouldn't know what the hell had hit them.

Her mum showed a tense smile. "You wait here. I'll go bring Lord Camelor in."

That had gone surprisingly well—far better than he'd expected or hoped.

She'd been so impressed, so _utterly_ convinced his support was the weapon she needed, she'd accepted all his conditions right there and then. She hadn't asked for even a day to think about them first.

Then again, he wasn't exactly dealing with the most experienced of political players. Thenwis was a lovely young woman—attractive, eloquent, smart, polite—but almost _shockingly_ naïve. She would fix that trustfulness in time, gradually learn to be a little more circumspect in her decisions, but not until well after this whole deal was done.

He raised the armrest cover, grabbed the car phone nestled inside. The number he dialled rang out until a voicemail service kicked in. "Leonilla, it's Rogen," he said once the message had finished. "There's something I want to discuss. It touches on that matter you mentioned on Tuesday. It's time sensitive, needs to be tackled quickly, so if you're interested, call me at home tonight." He ended the call and put the phone back.

Now, to see if the Countess would bite…


	8. Chapter 8

**Monday April 20, 2020**

What was it with The Edoras Times and trying to ruin her whole damn week before eleven o'clock on a Monday? Did the editor have something against her? Did he support the republican movement, perhaps? Or, had she accidentally pissed him off once, done something to ruffle his feathers, and this was the form his vengeance took?

First, it had been the piece criticizing Eomer's love life, and his lack of attention to his marital duties. Now, it was their late cousin's daughter causing trouble for them instead.

Actually, that wasn't quite true. It was highly unlikely Thenwis was the architect of this latest attack—she was almost certainly being used by older, craftier agitators who recognized a useful political pawn when they saw one.

Eowyn marched along the King's Hall, pleased to see the massive doors at the end were both wide open today. No furtive assignation for His Majesty last night, then. Come to think of it, no assignations at all this week, furtive or otherwise. That her various spies in the Palace had reported to her, at least. But as skilled at watching and listening as she was, she knew from being his sister for thirty years that Eomer could be twice as sneaky again, so he might simply be doing his 'entertaining' somehwere her army of spies couldn't see.

She hoped not. He _had_ promised to give the flings up. _And_ it had only been a week. Surely he wouldn't have broken his promises to her already?

She nodded at the guards as she passed—Godhild and Guthlaf today—and strode into the waiting room, pleased to see the door to Eomer's office was slightly ajar, which meant he could be interrupted. She strode in to drop the folded-up paper on top of the document he was signing, with the troublesome section face out.

"What the hell's this?" he said, setting the document and his pen aside.

"This is today's edition of The Edoras Times."

"Well, I can see _that_. But why on earth are you throwing it at me?" He smirked. "Did they write a hand-wringing piece about my sex life again?"

"Something far more disturbing than that."

"I don't know. Sometimes my sex life can be pretty disturbing."

She picked up the paper to smack him on the head with it. "This is serious," she said.

Sighing, he snatched the paper from her, his eyes darting over the text, searching for the source of her ire. She knew when he'd found it—his brows creased and the muscles in his jaw clenched.

"What the fuck is _this_?" he said, raising blazing eyes to her.

She snatched the paper out of his hands to wield it at him. " _This_ is the Earl of Camelor, our favourite person in the whole world, writing a letter to the editor to comment on last week's opinion piece, you know, the one with all the hand-wringing in it, adding his own pompous opinion on top, calling your commitment to the Crown and your sense of duty into question. Oh, and wanting to know, like everyone else this side of the Misty Mountains, why the hell you aren't married with children yet."

Eomer rubbed his face. "I should just have the asshole killed," he mumbled from behind his hands. "Everyone in the Hall of Lords hates him as much as I do. I'm quite sure nobody would mind."

Nobody would, but that wasn't the point. "Never mind _killing_ him, Your Majesty. Why don't you just try _not sleeping with his wife_?"

" _Ex_ -wife. And as I recall, we didn't do a lot of sleeping."

She smacked him with the paper again, hard enough to make him wince. "Don't be an arse."

"Sorry."

She flopped into one of the visitor chairs. "And Seorsa's _not_ his ex-wife. Not yet. Their divorce still hasn't gone through." She threw the paper onto the desk. "In theory, you slept with a married woman. And now, her husband's pissed off at you."

Eomer shook his head. "They were already legally separated when Seorsa and I got together, so that has nothing to do with why Camelor's pissed off at me. He's not sticking the knife in because I slept with his soon-to-be ex-wife. He's sticking the knife in because he _hates_ us, because of what happened with Uncle Ted and his father."

Eowyn couldn't argue with Eomer there. It was a long-running grudge the Earl seemed disinclined to ever let go of. And, if she was being honest, a perfectly valid grudge to bear. In the Earl's shoes, she wouldn't want to let go of it either—she would hold it until it died of old age, then have it gutted, treated and stuffed, and mounted on her sitting room wall. "But what you did with his wife won't have helped."

"I can't see how he would even know."

"He's Camelor. He'll know." The Earl understood the value of good information—his gathering network was almost as effective as hers.

 _Almost_ being the operative word…

"Even if he does, he has nothing to be pissed off about. If he's so concerned about me sleeping with her, he shouldn't have treated her so badly she decided she didn't want to be married to him."

"I hope she was worth it."

He smirked again. "As it happens, yes, she was."

That self-satisfied smirk of his was beginning to rub Eowyn the wrong way. If she saw it one more time this morning, she was going to wipe it off his face. Probably with the flat of her hand.

"You have any indication of how Camelor's letter has been received?" Eomer asked.

Oh, boy. Did she _ever_. "Here's the really interesting thing," she said, throwing the paper onto his desk and rising to go to the sideboard to pour herself a glass of his eighty-three Dunharrow. "Guess who made a speech in the Hall this morning, a long, dreary, dull one at that, referring to the Earl's opinion piece in The Times, adding her own illustrious opinion on top?"

Eomer pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"The Countess of Keveleok did." She put the bottle of whisky back on the tray and took her glass back to her seat. "You remember her, don't you? Everyone's favourite mother of three wealthy, attractive, unmarried daughters?"

He had the decency to look troubled now. "What did she say?"

"She made a truly amazing suggestion."

Eomer sighed. "Let me guess. That I should marry one of her daughters?"

"Something even worse than that."

"Not sure there would be anything worse than marrying one of Keveleok's daughters."

"You told me they were all perfectly pleasant young women."

"They are. But marrying one of them would mean having Keveleok as a mother-in-law."

The mere concept made Eowyn wince. "Yes, that would be rather unpleasant, wouldn't it?" But more or less unpleasant than having Lord Elrond as a father-in-law? Rather a tricky one, that…

"So, what exactly did she say? Keveleok, I mean?"

"She _oh-so-casually_ suggested, that if Your Majesty won't do your duty, perhaps the Crown should be given to someone who will."

"What, like _her_? Or her good buddy, Strone?"

"Like Thenwis Colafell, it seems."

Eomer leaned back in his chair. "Bema, not this," he murmured.

Alarm prickled in Eowyn's veins. "What do you mean, _not this_?" she said. Had this problem come up already, and in time-honoured House of Eorl tradition, her brother was hiding 'worrying' information from her? If he was, never mind the flat of her hand—she was going to wipe his smirk away with her foot.

"It only came up last Thursday," he said, raising his hands in a 'don't shoot me' gesture. "Fenbrand told me, he'd heard a rumour, that Thenwis wants to petition the Hall to request restoration of her grandmother's succession rights."

This was even worse than she'd thought. "Why on _earth_ would she ever do that?"

"Well, I don't know, Eowyn." Eomer's voice was sing-song mocking. "Maybe because _she wants to be Queen_?"

"She can't possibly think that will _actually_ happen. This is a constitutional monarchy, not a fictional TV drama. It doesn't matter what she wants. The Line of Succession is regulated by three different laws, all of which take almost an act of Eru to change, none of which even acknowledge Princess Thengwen exists, much less that she's entitled to inherit the Crown." Sometimes the sheer stupidity of people amazed her. It was all written in black and white for everyone in Rohan to see. And Thenwis Colafell could afford the best lawyers money could buy. Had nobody with some common sense explained the situation to her?

" _You_ know that, and _I_ know that, but nobody's explained it to Thenwis, it seems."

"But it's only a rumour. There's nothing definitive yet to back it up."

"No. At least, not yet." He tapped the paper. "But you might want to keep an eye on the petitions section. If she decides to proceed, that's where we'll see it first."

Eowyn swirled her glass. "Makes me wonder if they're all in cahoots. If Camelor and Keveleok have been meeting with her, telling her what she wants to hear, promising to drum up support in the Hall for her." She expected it from Camelor—the man was a scheming, devious snake—but she was disappointed with Keveleok. No more cozy lunches for her.

"Things like this are why I sometimes think we should abolish the Hall."

"Harbrand would take you up on that."

"You say that like it would be a bad thing."

"Just be careful what you wish for," Eowyn said. "Harbrand's a politician first and foremost, remember? She's not your friend. Never has been, never will be. She doesn't give a damn about the House of Eorl, beyond how she can use its standing for her own ends. You give her a chance to make herself a President instead of a Prime Minister, not only will she abolish the Hall, she'll abolish the whole damn monarchy as well. Don't work yourself out of a job just because you don't like the Lords. You're relatively good at this, but you don't have the talent to do anything else." She tipped back her drink, pausing to enjoy the fiery trail it left in her throat. "Unless you think you could earn a living as an expensive male escort instead," she added.

Eomer huffed. "Okay, remember what I said last week about how genuinely loved I feel?"

"Says the man who once spent three months trying to persuade me I was adopted." And that the adoption agency had dropped her off in a courier delivery van.

"I was _ten_ , Wynna. And granna more than made me pay for my sins. It's not like I got off lightly."

The very opposite, in fact. Morwen had punished Eomer for _months_ —well beyond what was necessary or fair—so furious had she been that the son of a princess and an earl would attempt to 'disown' his legitimate sister.

"What was the mood in the Hall after the speech?" he asked. "Any indication of how much support Camelor and Keveleok had?"

"Only a little for Camelor, most people in the Hall can't stand him, but slightly more for Keveleok."

"So, people _actually_ think replacing me is a good idea?" His tone was mostly offended, but she could hear a hint of hurt underneath.

"They're not interested in deposing you," she said in a kinder tone, trying to put him at ease. "They all like you well enough, and they also know we're long past the time when we get rid of a king just because he annoys us. But they're definitely frustrated with you, so right this minute, they like Thenwis as well."

"But she hasn't done anything!"

She slammed her glass down on his desk. "Yes, Eomer, that's the whole _point_. In their eyes, she hasn't caused them any trouble yet."

"She's not qualified to be Queen."

"She's as qualified as anyone needs to be. She's from a good family, she's young, smart, attractive and Rohanese born and bred."

"Well, if that's all they need, they can always put my horse on the throne."

A fire erupted in her stomach again, and this time not because of her drink. Just for once, could Eomer be a little less glib? "Will you take this seriously, please? This could have enormous implications for you." And by extension, for her as well, since she was next in the line of succession. She didn't want to be Queen, but she would take the job in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Thenwis Colafell out. The sheer, outrageous _nerve_ of the girl…

"I _am_ taking it seriously. I'm just not entirely sure what you want me to do. I don't have Aragorn's level of power. This is a constitutional monarchy, and the constitution guarantees the political independence of both the House and the Hall. I can't tell any of the Lords what to think, or who to like, or what opinions to have, or what speech to give, or what petitions to hear, or how to vote on any they do."

"You could strip the Lords of all their titles." On two separate occasions, a course of action she'd almost suggested he take. "Then appoint a whole new set of Lords in their place. That's one power you do still have. The Commons hasn't taken that from you yet."

"You know as well as I do if I tried that, the entire Landed class would bring out their pitchforks and torches and storm the walls of the Palace that night. Would be the first time in a century when we actually needed the Sovereign's Door."

"Unfortunately, it's not just the Hall that's going to cause trouble. The papers are already in a frenzy about the piece in The Times last week. When they get wind of this, they're going to have an absolute field day. Especially the tabloids. You know how much they love to stir things up." She could almost see the front page. Something about the untold story of 'Rohan's tragic true heir', with a photo of Thenwis and her younger sister looking dispossessed and sad.

"They can print all the silly headlines they want. The law determines who the heir is, not the press, and certainly not public opinion. And the succession law as it stands says Princess Thengwen and her descendants don't even exist."

The succession law did, but real life didn't. "I'm going to make some phone calls this morning, see what various people think. If this is going to turn into a problem, we need to have a defensive plan ready."

"Start with the Countess of Darkfald," Eomer said. "Erella knows how to ask questions without raising suspicion, and she's got her fingers in everyone's pies." The way he said it made her wonder if the Countess was another one of his conquests. "If anyone can subtly take the Hall's temperature for us, it's her," he added.

"That's what I was thinking, yes."

"Don't bother with Hamelmark. We already know what his answer will be."

"He'll offer to kill Camelor for you." Or, to hold the earl down if Eomer wanted to do it himself.

"And don't push too hard if you don't need to. We might have more time to deal with this than we think."

Cold prickles ran up her spine. What the _hell_ was he up to now? "Eomer, are you planning something?"

" _I'm_ not planning anything." He leaned forward over his desk to murmur, "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, it's still privileged information for now, but the Prime Minister _might_ be about to call an election. She'll tell me for sure when she comes to see me tomorrow."

"I thought we weren't due for one until next year."

"She's calling it early, trying to use the fallout from the Adenbrook scandal to increase her seats."

"And nobody can put in a petition to either the Hall or the House while Parliament is suspended." Bema, but this was good news—the first really good news she'd had in weeks. This could give them at least a month—plenty of time for the press to pick the Thenwis story apart, grow bored with it and move on to something else. She was half-tempted to pay someone to fabricate a small scandal for her, just to give the press that something else to move on to. She'd done it before, wouldn't hesitate to do it again if it kept her brother's crown safe.

The clock on the wall chimed ten o'clock; a few seconds later, Eomer's phone started to ring. "This is a scheduled call, I have to take it," he said, reaching for the handset. "Go make your enquiries, come and let me know what you find out later."

Eowyn grabbed her paper, rose from her seat and strode away.

By mid-afternoon, the news was worse—bad enough Eowyn felt it couldn't wait until she and Eomer caught up at dinner.

There was no sign of her brother in his office.

The door to his inner suite was ajar—she followed the trail—he was at the table by the window again, watching the birds now instead of the bees, wrapping up what must be for him an extremely late lunch.

He looked up as she approached. "I was about to ask you how your phone calls went, but given the puckered look on your face, I think I already know."

She made a mental note to check out her 'puckered' look the next time she was near a mirror. "I spoke to eleven people," she said. "All of them told me not to worry too much, they don't think Thenwis's petition will be allowed to go to the vote if she puts it before the Hall." Now, for once, it was her turn to smirk. "Believe it or not, despite how many of their wives and daughters you've slept with, or maybe _because_ of how many of their wives and daughters you've slept with, I'm not really sure, most of the Lords do actually _like_ you, have no desire to see you deposed."

"Should be glad for small mercies, I guess."

"But the Earl of Hereoch made an _extremely_ interesting suggestion."

"Not sure you're legally allowed to put the words 'Hereoch' and 'extremely interesting' in the same sentence." He waved her into a chair. "Have a seat, please."

She raised a hand to refuse. "Thank you, but I've already eaten."

"Yes, but you make me nervous when you hover. I feel much safer when you're at the same level as me."

Eowyn sank into the chair, silently adding another item to her list of sisterly psychological tools.

"So, what did Hereoch say?" Eomer asked.

"He didn't approve of Keveleok's speech."

"Hardly surprising. He's always been a strictly by-the-book man, never one to rebel against the established order of things."

"He was quite angry with the Countess, thought her speech was insulting and inflammatory."

"Which it kind of was, really."

"He doesn't believe Thenwis is eligible to be Queen. He thinks Princess Thengwen's renunciation of her succession rights was all above board, and should be left well and truly alone. As should you and your crown."

"Well, that's a good start."

She leaned forward. "But here's the really frightening part."

His fork paused halfway to stabbing into a baby potato. He made a pained face. "Why do I think I'm not going to enjoy this?"

"There's one role Hereoch thinks Thenwis _is_ eligible for."

"What's that?"

"He thinks she would make an excellent Queen Consort."

Eomer blinked. "He _what_?"

"He thinks you should marry Thenwis."

Horrified didn't quite describe the look that settled on her brother's face. "Why the _fuck_ would he ever think that?"

"Well, I don't know, Eomer," she said, parroting his earlier tone. "Maybe because _you're_ not married, and _she's_ not married, and for all his intellectual failings, Hereoch's smart enough to realize that if Thenwis lodges her petition, the Constitution notwithstanding, it potentially creates a divisive rival claim to the Crown?"

"I'm very well aware of that. Why do you think I want the bloody thing thrown out?"

"But as Lord Hereoch _so_ helpfully pointed out, instead of spending all that time to have it thrown out, why not just eliminate the problem completely by combining her claim to the Crown with your own?" Eowyn had to admit, as ugly as it sounded, there was a certain logic to the proposal.

"I can't marry my first cousin, Wynna. That's just _wrong_."

"Once removed," she corrected.

"Sorry?"

"She's Thendred's daughter. He was our first cousin. So, she's your first cousin once removed."

"Like that really matters."

"It's not illegal." Not in Rohan, at least. She was fairly sure Gondor didn't allow it.

"Not illegal isn't the same as morally right. And even if she was a stranger from the other fucking side of the planet, she's _still_ only twenty. And I'm _thirty-four_. She'll be even more of an alien species than the three Keveleok daughters."

Two f-bombs in less than a minute—a sure-fire sign of how worried he was. He _should_ feel worried. Thanks to Hereoch's 'helpful' advice—advice he'd already shared with a dozen equally talkative friends—this was about to become a mess of _epic_ proportions. "Yes, well, as Lord Hereoch was at delicate pains to remind me, Thenwis's youth means she would be able to, and I quote, _fill the royal nursery for you_."

Eomer's fork impaled the potato. "If nobody minds, I think I'd like to have Hereoch killed as well."

"Is that your answer to everything? _Killing_ people?"

"You have to admit, it has a certain simplicity to it."

"And think of all the grieving widows you would get to console."

"Okay, you can leave. _Right_ now," Eomer said, using his potato-covered fork to point to the door.

She knew he was joking, but rose from her chair nonetheless. She'd said what she'd come here to say; she had other work to be getting on with. "You _do_ realize, this whole mess is all your fault?"

Eomer sighed. "Wynna, if this is about me sleeping with Seorsa Camelor again…"

"You told me you didn't do much sleeping."

"If this is about me _fucking_ Seorsa Camelor again," he said through gritted teeth.

Three in a minute; a new record. "It isn't, no, but as Lord Hereoch also reminded me, the only reason his so-called solution is even a viable option at all is that _you're not bloody married yet_ ," she said, doing some teeth clenching of her own. And maybe a tiny bit of fist-clenching as well.

"Okay, new rule."

"What?"

"From now on, you're only allowed to bug me about my marital status once a week."

A win for her—that was far more frequently than she'd intended. "I can work with that. I'll be back next Monday to remind you again."

His shoulders slumped. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"As Eorl was when he answered Cirion's call. Monday morning, eight o'clock sharp. I'll let Halmund and Bregdan know. She tapped the back of the chair she'd just vacated. "Remember to set a place for me."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was added on Feb 8, 2021, after I'd already written 410k up to Chapter 81, so it's 'new', but not in the usual sense. I wrote it a while ago, didn't think it was needed. But I've been re-reading the story from scratch to get over my writer's block, and I've decided I want to include it after all.
> 
> If you have been following the story as I've been writing, you will not lose anything by not reading this - it's just some extra footage of the Hamelmarks and the Elgolls. You can absolutely ignore it if you want. If this is your first pass of the story, you're all good, just keep reading, ignore this note :)
> 
> There may be a few more of these, but more actual new content is coming as well, I promise.

**Wednesday April 22, 2020**

They were having an election, then.

It made sense, given the state the opposition was in. Totally fucked, was how Jonno had put it. Ripe for the plucking, Erella had said. But whatever description anyone used, it was definitely far too good an opening to pass up. If Duncan was in the PM's shoes (and Bema, wouldn't _that_ be a hoot) he would have done the same thing.

Some of the morning pundits didn't approve (and who the _fuck_ had ever decided morning pundits should be a thing) saying Harbrand was taking 'undue and unfair advantage' of the opposition's bad luck. As if being caught in the Adenbrook mess had had anything to do with luck. As if everyone the police had charged had just slipped on something squishy and somehow broken their fall on a six-figure bribe.

But time would show them how the general public felt—if it shared his own view of Harbrand's decision, or if it thought she was being just a little too ruthless as well. Although, how anyone could put the words 'politician' and 'too ruthless' in the same sentence and keep a straight face, Duncan had no idea. You didn't get anywhere in politics now without being a merciless prick. Oh, and without being a phenomenally good liar as well. And he should know; he was a politician, too—just in a slightly different arena.

The arsehole from The Helm's Deep Herald was talking again. Duncan grabbed the remote to press the mute button, just as his older son strode into the room.

Erland bustled around, gathering his work stuff together. "Something wrong with the news?" he said, waving at the silent TV.

"I can't stand the way the guy speaks," Duncan explained. "Plus, his opinions are shite, so I'd rather leave him on mute until he's done with his piece."

"What learned opinions is he blessing us with today?"

"The PM just called an election, and he doesn't approve."

Erland turned, raising a brow. "An election? Already?"

Would the average thirty-two-year-old man know when the next election was due? Probably not. But the average thirty-two-year-old man wasn't the son of an earl who sat in the Hall. "It's because of the Adenbrook thing," Duncan said. "The opposition's so fucked up, it couldn't organize a gang-bang in a brothel right now."

"So, the PM's trying to bump up her seats at the opposition's expense," Erland correctly concluded.

Duncan grabbed the coffee pot to refill his mug. "If Harbrand can't use this to add at least five seats to her count, she doesn't deserve to keep the top job."

"Would it bother you if she didn't?"

"A little. I don't really like her that much, she's a little too self-serving for my tastes, but she's the least bad of a bad bunch."

"Not saying much, though, is it? Like trying to pick the least stinky turd."

Or the most attractive pile of sick. "I just wish I'd put some money on it."

Erland's hand froze halfway to grabbing an apple. "Sorry?"

He probably shouldn't share this part, but Erland was the heir to his earldom, so at some point, he would have to deal with this stuff himself. "Someone warned me last week that Harbrand was going to call an election. I didn't think they were serious." Duncan grinned. "If I'd gone to the bookies, I could have made a killing."

"Right, because if there's one thing the Earl of Hamelmark has to worry about, it's money."

"I will if your sister moves back in. All three of my kids living at home? My bills are going to go through the roof."

Erland rolled his eyes. "And speaking of Solly moving in, do you know if she's heard anything back from the Palace?"

Duncan shook his head. "Spoke to her briefly last night, she's had no response yet. But she only sent it off last Monday. We need to give it more time."

"You think the King will agree to lift her Ban?"

"No idea. Haven't spoken to him since his coronation." And even then, only to swear fealty to him. "He might not want to. He might be really angry about what happened, think your sister deserved what she got, tell her to piss off and never darken his doorstep again." Or whatever the royal equivalent of a doorstep was.

"I was hoping he would be nicer than that."

"So was I." Duncan blew on his coffee. "But it's like the election. We'll just have to wait and see what happens."

Of all the weeks to not be at home.

Bad enough he hadn't been in the Hall when Leonilla Keveleok had launched her fiery attack on the King, now they were calling an election as well? Talk about choosing the worst possible time to travel?

The election was the lesser concern. Darkfald and Hereoch could handle the wash-up work in the Hall, so on that front, his absence would be a minor nuisance at worst. But he was kicking himself about that speech. He should have been there to speak for the King, to put Keveleok in her place. He was the Earl of Elgoll, for Bema's sake—the second-ranking peer in the Hall. Protecting the sanctity of the Crown was his first and most important job.

After being a husband and father, of course…

Tommen grabbed the remote to press the mute button. He'd heard enough; he didn't want to hear anymore. He checked the time; it was quarter to ten—thirty minutes until their next meeting. How he wished he could cancel it, and all of the other upcoming meetings as well, fuel up the jet and fly home today.

Elfhelm emerged from his room, sliding the knot of his tie into place. He waved at the television. "Something offends?"

Tommen shook his head. "I just don't want to listen to it." His son, at least, he could tell why. "The more I hear, the guiltier I feel."

"Why on earth do you feel guilty?"

"Because in the same week someone attacked the King, the Prime Minister also called an election. And I'm the second-ranking member of the Hall of Lords. I shouldn't be here. I should be at home to help."

"Not really anything you can help with, though, is there?" Elfhelm pointed out. "Erella and Torben will handle all the wash-up work, so I wouldn't let that worry you."

"That's not the part I'm worried about."

"Keveleok's speech."

Tommen nodded. "The woman should be ashamed of herself. _And_ Camelor, for that appalling letter he wrote." Just thinking about the contents made his blood boil; he might need to have a massage and a whiskey later.

"Camelor is Camelor," Elfhelm said. "Expecting him to behave well is like expecting the sun to rise in the west. An utter waste of everyone's time."

"I should have been there," Tommen said, thumping a fist on the arm of the couch. "It should have been me who stood up to respond to the speech."

"The Countess of Thelanor did a good job."

"She certainly did." So far, the only good point about the whole business.

"But you think you would have done a better one."

"I would have made Keveleok regret the sorry day she was born."

Elfhelm chuckled. "Now, _that,_ I would have paid to see." He laid a hand on Tommen's shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up too much about it. We've had these meetings booked for months. Eomer will understand."

Yes, His Majesty probably would. But that didn't make Tommen feel any better...


	10. Chapter 10

**Thursday April 23, 2020**

Another day, another meeting, another folder-full of problems.

Actually, no, that wasn't quite true. Today, his folder had only two items in it, one of which he was sure would need mere seconds to discuss. But the other item? That was a once-in-a-lifetime concern—something Fenbrand had never had to deal with before. He was looking forward to the discussion, and to hearing what the King's answer would be.

At least His Majesty's mood had improved. He was still pensive around the edges, but nowhere near as broody as he'd been last week. And happily, Fenbrand now knew for sure what the source of the King's ill-humour had been—he was facing pressure on numerous fronts, from both inside the palace and out, to give up his happy bachelor ways. As a lifelong bachelor himself, Fenbrand could sympathize with the King's reaction.

The guards at the door were Vonnal and Mordoc today. Fenbrand settled for a curt nod as he passed—both men had so far resisted all his attempts to recruit them to his information-gathering cause. That blasted Marcher sense of honour, always getting in the way. It was the same with the garage staff, where Brendal's hostile watchfulness kept his recruiting efforts at bay. 

The door to the King's office was closed. Fenbrand could hear the King chatting inside; he moved as close to the door as he could without looking as if he was listening in, trying to hear what the King was saying. Behind him, someone quietly cleared their throat. He turned to find Vonnal looking right at him, his face like thunder, one eyebrow accusingly raised. Fenbrand smiled politely and moved away.

A few minutes later, the chatting in the office stopped. Fenbrand straightened up as footsteps approached; the door opened and the King waved him in. "Apologies, Fenbrand, my phone call ran late. Come in, have a seat, please."

Fenbrand followed the King, pulled out one of the visitor seats, but as protocol demanded, waited for his host to sit before he sat himself.

"I see Parliament has adjourned," the King said, shuffling some papers together to set them aside.

"It has, sir, yes."

"No problems with the official paperwork, I presume?"

"None at all, sir," Fenbrand said. "All proclamations were in order, Parliament will dissolve on the thirtieth of April as planned."

"And the election on the twenty-first of May."

"Three weeks precisely after the dissolution, sir, yes."

The King opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a bottle and two small glasses, unscrewed the bottle and filled each glass with a generous measure of a reddish-gold liquid. He placed one glass in front on Fenbrand, kept the other one for himself. "It's one of the main drawbacks of being the King, you know."

Fenbrand collected the glass to take a sip of what proved to be a pleasant sherry. He didn't usually drink during the day, preferring to restrict himself to a soothing measure of port an hour or so before bed, but when His Majesty offered, one didn't refuse. "What's that, sir?"

"Sometimes, I miss being able to vote."

Shock rippled up Fenbrand's spine. "Did you actually vote before you were King, sir?"

"You seem a little surprised."

"I just assumed you wouldn't have, sir. It's customary for members of the royal family not to."

The King nodded. "To maintain political neutrality, yes." He shrugged as he sipped on his drink. "But I wasn't always a member of the royal family, was I?"

"I suppose not, sir, no," was all Fenbrand could bring himself to say. But even before Prince Theodred's death, the Earl of Aldburg, as the King had then been, had still been second-in-line to the throne. Not officially royal, no, since he hadn't been born the son of a king or a prince, but certainly close enough to the Crown that he should have known to conduct himself as such, in both his public and private affairs. Had nobody told him what the rules were?

The King smiled. "My apologies, Fenbrand. Ignore me. I'm just in a strange mood today." He gestured at Fenbrand's leather folder. "So, what's on the problem list this week?"

"Only two items for you today, sir," Fenbrand said, making a mental note to find out what the source of this new mood was. It was like playing some kind of game—as soon as he'd solved one riddle, another one materialized to take its place. It was all rather vexing. There had never been riddles of any kind in King Theoden's day.

"Both nice and easy I hope?"

"One is easy, sir. The other one needs a little more thought."

"Let's tackle the easy one first."

The answer Fenbrand had expected—His Majesty always left the difficult stuff to last. "It was just confirmed this morning, sir, the State Opening of Parliament will be on the fourth of June," he said.

"Assuming it's a clear election result."

"It seems unlikely it won't be, sir, given the condition the opposition party is in. The widespread opinion so far is, Miss Harbrand should win an outright majority, with a moderate increase in her overall number of seats."

"Keeps it nice and simple for us. No need to wait two weeks for the party leaders to argue out who's going to head up a coalition."

"Indeed, sir."

"Did I have anything pencilled in for the fourth?" the King asked, jumping straight to what Fenbrand had been about to address.

"Three engagements, sir. One of which has already been rescheduled, Gwinlen and Fadrell are finalizing new dates for the other two as we speak."

"And have you advised The Princess Royal's staff? She'll need to reschedule as well."

Fenbrand nodded. "Already taken care of."

"Excellent, thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

"So, that's the easy item done. What's the trickier one?"

Fenbrand opened his folder to bring the document out. It was heavy, for a letter, but that wasn't surprising, given it had been written on formal parchment (in the neatest cursive Fenbrand had ever seen) and closed with a stamped wax seal bearing the arms of one of the Kingdom's most notorious Landed Houses. He himself had broken the seal—even formal Court letters never went to the King unchecked. "We received this letter yesterday, sir. It's a formal request, addressed directly to you, from the Earl of Hamelmark's daughter." He held the letter out.

Frowning, the King took the document from him. "Solwis, isn't it? The daughter, I mean?"

"Solwen," Fenbrand corrected.

"Solwen, right." The King checked the seal, scanned the handwritten address on the front, and pulled out the letter to open it and skim through the text. "She's asking me to lift her Ban," he said. "She wants to move to Edoras, but isn't allowed to while the Ban is still in effect."

"I checked the records this morning, sir. King Theoden imposed the Ban ten years ago, and there's no record of him having removed it before he died."

The King sat back in his seat. "Tricky beast, the King's Ban, isn't it? The tradition's so old, we've never been sure where the legal authority for it stems from, if it's considered a decree of the Crown, or of the individual monarch." He sighed. "And don't get me started on what a Charter lawyer would say."

"I took the liberty of consulting with our legal team, sir. They told me a legal challenge to the Ban would almost certainly be upheld, on the grounds it would be a Charter of Rights violation."

"And even if that didn't work, Lady Solwen could probably argue the Ban ended when Uncle Ted died."

"Indeed, sir."

"Surprised it's taken her this long to ask."

"I actually looked into that, sir, and it seems she's been living abroad for the last eight years."

"So, the Ban's never been a problem, because she hasn't ever needed to live in Edoras."

"Exactly, sir."

"But now she's back in Rohan."

"Yes, sir." Quickly, Fenbrand added, "But living in Isendale at the moment, based on the return address."

"Makes sense. That's where the Hamelmark holding is."

The King read the letter again. Fenbrand sat quietly, waiting for him to finish.

"Beautifully worded," the King said with a slight smile. "Scrupulously polite on top, but with just a tiny hint of Marcher boldness underneath."

"You can't accuse the young lady of not being succinct." A little _too_ succinct, in Fenbrand's opinion.

"I know what answer I want to give," the King said, "but I also remember what conditions Uncle Theoden put on the Ban being lifted, and I'm pretty sure those haven't been met."

"Are you familiar with the incident that led to the Ban being imposed?"

The King snorted. "You could say that, yes."

"Sir?"

"I was looking right at her when it happened, Fenbrand. I know _exactly_ what Her Ladyship did."

Fenbrand had missed the entire affair—he'd been out of town on personal business that week—but he'd heard various first- and second-hand accounts from other members of staff. "I've been told it was quite a punch, sir."

"It was. One of the best right hooks I've ever seen."

"Is it true she broke the gentleman's nose?"

"Broke his nose, gave him two amazing black eyes. Which sounds terrible, but strictly between you and me, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person."

"I've never met Lord Thelden, sir. But, how shall I say, his reputation proceeds him?"

"If that's a diplomatic way of saying the man's an utter arsehole, Fenbrand, then yes, it absolutely does."

"Is it true he provoked the young lady?"

The King nodded. "That's putting it politely. He said something extremely vulgar to Lady Solwen, then said something equally vulgar about her grandmother, barely a month after the latter's death. Lady Solwen didn't take it well."

"And this was in the Golden Hall?"

"At the ceremony to install her father as the new Earl of Hamelmark, yes."

A shocking occasion to pick a fight. "He underestimated the strength of Lady Solwen's anger, it seems."

 _"And_ the strength of her fist. He forgot the Hamelmarks are Marchers. You know how they are. They mean what they say and they say what they mean, and sometimes, when they're not in the mood for words, they let their fists do their talking for them instead."

"I was always of the view that violence never solves anything, sir." Maybe one of the reasons why he and the Marchers on the staff never saw eye to eye.

"Normally, I'd feel the same way. But the comment Thelden Camelor made, and where and when he made it, and who he made it to, he _absolutely_ had it coming. He's lucky she only punched him once." The King's expression darkened. "If he'd said what he said to Eowyn, I would have taken him outside and beaten him to a pulp."

The mere thought—the King assaulting the son of a high-ranking earl—made Fenbrand feel slightly faint. "If I may say so, sir, it seems strange it wasn't Lord Thelden who received the Ban instead."

The King threw back the rest of his drink. "It was two months after Theodred's death, so just at the point where Uncle Ted was really beginning to struggle." He sighed. "And the Camelor brothers were in with Grima. Itt's entirely possible Grima persuaded Uncle Ted it was Lady Solwen who was in the wrong. Several people saw what she did, including me, I was looking right at her when it happened, but she and Thelden were standing at the back of the room, so nobody actually heard what he said."

"So, it became a he-said, she-said problem," Fenbrand concluded. Thankfully, a type of problem he'd never had to deal with himself.

"It was her word against his. She claimed he'd threatened her, he claimed he'd merely been asking after her health. He was thirty and rational and calm, she was eighteen and angry and crying. I think the Camelors knew how to use that to turn Uncle Ted's opinion against her." The King shrugged. "Or, maybe Uncle Ted didn't want to be seen as excusing assault, which I'll freely admit is what the punch was, provocation or not. I don't know. He never talked to me about it. I think he knew I wouldn't agree with his decision."

"I must say, sir, it seems a rather strange thing for someone to do."

"Which part?"

"Lord Thelden's part, sir. Why would a grown man do any such thing?" And not just any grown man—a brother of the kingdom's sixth-ranking Earl. "In the Golden Hall, no less? During a formal ceremony, in the King's presence?"

"That was another part of the argument, I think. That Lady Solwen's claims were so unbelievable, nobody should even believe her."

"But you believed her."

"I certainly did," the King said. "I don't know for sure what Thelden said, but nobody throws a punch like the one she threw without a very good reason. She was eighteen, and angry, yes, but her anger was _extremely_ focused. She wasn't a hysterical child, or so overcome with emotion she couldn't think straight." He scowled again. "And I know what kind of man Thelden Camelor is. He doesn't have an honourable bone in his body. I have absolutely no problem believing her side of the story."

"Does that mean you're willing to grant Lady Solwen's request?"

The King held the letter out; Fenbrand put down his drink to take it back. "I don't see why I shouldn't," the King said. "It was Uncle Ted who imposed the Ban, and even then, likely only as a way to force her to apologize."

"Which she seems rather determined not to do."

"Fenbrand, she's lived abroad for eight years so she wouldn't even have to address it. That's not just quite determined. That's downright bloody-minded."

"As you so astutely pointed out, sir, she _is_ a Marcher."

 _"And_ a Hamelmark on top. So, accusing her of being bloody-minded is like accusing water of being wet."

"Your Majesty, you _do_ realize, if you lift the Ban without the apology being given, the Earl of Camelor is likely take it badly?"

"Take it badly." Smiling, the King shook his head. "There's your wonderful way with words again."

"Would it be more accurate to say he'll be grossly offended?"

"It certainly would. But I think you should leave that problem to me."

Fenbrand put the letter back in his folder. "Would you like me to reply to Lady Solwen for you?"

"Yes, please. Tell her I'm lifting the Ban, and she's allowed to live in Edoras again."

"Of course, sir," Fenbrand said, quickly dipping his head.

"On one condition," the King added, raising a reinforcing finger. "Let her know, she _has_ to promise, no more punching people at formal functions. If she does it again, I'll put the Ban back in place, and this time, it'll be the whole capital district, not just the capital city. See how much she likes living in Rohan, then."

"I'll convey an appropriately-worded warning, sir. And I'll register the Ban's removal."

"Thank you, Fenbrand. Now, let's see how long it takes for Lady Solwen to pop up in town."

Or, for the Camelors to complain...


	11. Chapter 11

**Saturday April 25, 2020**

For what felt like the fortieth time that morning, Imrahil turned to check the information board behind him.

DELAYED, the scrolling status message for their flight to Dol Amroth read.

That was putting it mildly.

They'd been stuck here now for almost three hours, waiting for the heavy fog that was smothering Dol Amroth to clear. The plane was ready, the crew was ready, the passengers were _more_ than ready. But until the weather over the Bay of Belfalas improved, nobody was going anywhere anytime soon.

It was his own fault, really. He'd lived in Dol Amroth more or less his whole life, so he knew as well as anyone that this time of year was the foggy season. He should have played it safe, taken the express train to Minas Tirith instead.

Just as well it was only a Saturday, and he and Elphir didn't have an important meeting to rush to at the other end. And at least they could 'enjoy' the wait in the luxury of the terminal's VIP lounge. Eru only knew how ordinary people who couldn't afford such comforts managed.

Imrahil froze, cocking an ear as the lounge tannoy gently binged. But the announcement wasn't for their flight—it was for the flight at the next gate over, leaving for Bree in thirty-five minutes.

Other than their timely departure, Imrahil didn't envy the passengers on that plane. He and his wife had been to Bree once, four years ago, hadn't seen anything while they were there that would make them want to visit again. If they ever went back, it would only be to travel through on their way to The Shire—one of the handful of places still on his wife's 'To Do' tourism list.

A few seats away, a man wearing a suit so expensive even Imrahil would balk at the price gathered his belongings together and strode to the door of the VIP suite, his equally costly outer coat draped neatly over his arm, his travel documents grasped in his hand. He left his folded-up newspaper on the seat. Imrahil glanced around, making sure none of his fellow VIPs were watching, then snaked out an arm to grab it.

He unfurled the paper, surprised to see it was a copy of The Edoras Times. He'd expected the Gondor Guardian, or maybe even the Dol Amroth Press. Was the departing gentleman a scion of the Horse Lords, then? Perhaps one of their wealthier earls? It seemed unlikely, given his slender build and glossy, black hair. Probably just another Gondorian businessman with a taste for international news.

Imrahil flipped through the pages, waiting for an interesting headline to jump out and grab his attention. A financial scandal, a gruesome murder, or maybe even the ill-timed exposure of a politician's grubby affair. He hit the jackpot on page five. WHY WE NEED A QUEEN the jarring headline screamed. Oh, dear. Someone at The Edoras Times had gotten their riding breeches bunched up today. Which surprised him; he read the paper from time to time—he had investments on the ESE, so liked to keep up with Rohanese business news—and it was usually such a calm, prudent publication.

He skimmed the first three paragraphs—enough to decide if he wanted to read the half-page opinion piece in full. The more he read, the more shocked he felt. And not just at the topic; at the brazen tone and content as well. Yes, it was worrying Eomer still wasn't married, even though he was about to turn thirty-four, but to publish such sordid gossip about what should be a man's _private_ life? It wasn't just shocking, it was downright disrespectful too. No Gondorian publication would ever dare to do the same thing to a member of any of their own royal houses. It just wasn't done. The last journalist who had tried had earned himself a short spell in jail for his troubles.

He gave up on the rest of the piece—the hectoring tone was just too annoying. He flicked to the finance pages to scan the ESE listings instead, looking for the symbols of his stock holdings. He was pleased to see all of them were up quite a bit—the markets obviously agreed with Harbrand's election decision.

A shadow fell over the page. He looked up, but it was only Elphir, returning from the wander he'd gone on in attempt to kill some more time. "I just called mama," he said, wielding his phone. "She's out on the terrace, says the fog is finally clearing, think it'll be gone within the hour."

Finally.

Elphir ducked his head to check the front page. "Anything interesting happening in Edoras right now? Apart from the PM calling the election I mean?"

"That depends. Do you consider speculation about the King's intimate affairs to be interesting?"

Elphir blinked. "They're talking about Eomer's _sex life_?"

"Not in gruesome detail, but more or less, yes."

"That's rather tawdry, don't you think?"

"It certainly is. Makes me glad we live in Gondor instead. If the Guardian ever tried the same thing, Lord Denethor would send in the guard to shut them down by the end of the day."

Sighing, Elphir shook his head. "Our Rohanese cousins and their free speech."

"What _is_ quite interesting, though, is how worried the whole country seems to be about the fact Eomer isn't married yet. There's a bit of a public argument raging, and a lot of people apparently think it's time he settled down."

Elphir shrugged. "He's a King. And a constitutional one, at that. He doesn't rule in the traditional sense. Getting married and having children is literally his only job."

Not for the first time Imrahil wondered—where did his eldest son and heir get this know-it-all tendency from? "Elphir, even in Rohan, it isn't _quite_ as simple as that. Eomer isn't Aragorn, but he does have some political power."

"Not much."

"Oh, so, you're an expert on being a king, now? Good to know. I'll make a point of mentioning it to Aragorn the next time we're in Minas Tirith. I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear whatever valuable input you have."

Elphir flopped into a seat. "Papa, I'm not a king, and I never will be, so I don't know what Eomer's job involves. But I will be Prince of Dol Amroth one day. And I know the first duty of anyone who holds hereditary power is to procreate. If there's no heir to inherit, the whole system fails."

Imrahil could acknowledge Elphir made a good point. And sadly, within the borders of their own country, a slightly dangerous point. "I won't mention that part to Aragorn, I think. Best not to remind our king how important it is to have a male heir."

"I'm sure His Majesty's well aware of how much he needs a legitimate son."

"I'm just glad it isn't something I need to worry about."

Elphir grinned. "You and mama have been appropriately fecund."

 _"Too_ fecund, I sometimes think."

"Three sons is rather a lot." Elphir wrinkled his nose. "You shouldn't have bothered with Amrothos. You should have had another daughter instead."

"Yes, except, your beloved sister has so far caused me more trouble than the three of you combined." He folded the paper up and threw it onto the table beside him. "I never would have thought it, you know. That Eomer still wouldn't be married yet. He seemed so eager for it when we met him."

"Was a long time ago. Things happen. People change."

"Not _that_ much, surely?"

Elphir shrugged again. "Maybe he's figured out he likes men. Maybe he hasn't met the right woman. Maybe he's having too much fun bedding ever beautiful woman this side of Minas Ithil. Maybe what Lothiriel said turned him off the idea of marriage for good, and he's decided he'd rather just stay single instead. Who knows?"

Imrahil's mind immediately went to the fateful night, eight years ago, in the family's private dining room in the Amroth Palace. He remembered everything his daughter had said and the precise tone in which she had said it. He loved her dearly, as any father worth his salt should, but the words she'd used still made him cringe in horror even now. "It wasn't the most diplomatic thing your sister's ever done. I know she deeply regrets it now. I know she would take her words back and do it all over again if she could."

"Do you think she would accept Eomer's proposal? If she could do it all over again, I mean?"

"Perhaps. She didn't think Eomer was sophisticated enough for her, but I think what happened with Silrandir last year taught her that sophistication doesn't matter if you don't have kindness as well."

"And Eomer was certainly kind."

"Extremely." Either before or since, Imrahil had never seen a man so tenderly solicitous of a woman's feelings. And to then have that solicitousness so cruelly and completely crushed…

"But she can't take it back, can she?" Elphir said. "I mean, it's good she realizes she was in the wrong, but where Eomer's concerned, it's like that line in that play, what's done is done."

"And cannot be undone," Imrahil murmured.

Or, could it?


	12. Chapter 12

**Monday April 27, 2020**

It wasn't even nine o'clock yet, and Eowyn's day was already heading downhill.

But at least it wasn't The Edoras Times bringing out her temper today.

For the third time in as many weeks, she marched the length of the King's Hall, her steps echoing back to her as she walked, to share some troubling news with her brother. It was getting a little repetitive—the faded portraits lining the wall must be as bored of seeing her as she was of seeing them—but the exercise would do her calves good.

She strode through the double doors, acknowledging the guards on duty with the briefest of nods. To her annoyance, the door to the King's office was closed. Eomer must be meeting with someone, either in person or on the phone.

She stepped back into the hall to speak to the guard on the right. He was new; she couldn't remember his name. "Is the King meeting with someone?" she said.

The guard swallowed and nodded; his eyes almost flitted to her, until he remembered the rules and fixed his gaze straight ahead. "With Algrin, Your Highness."

So, nobody hugely important, then. Or, rather, nobody so important she couldn't interrupt for five minutes. She returned to the door, knocked loudly to let them know she was coming, turned the handle and walked right in.

Algrin shot up from his chair, turning to give a respectful bow. "Your Highness, good morning."

"Good morning, Algrin," she said, smiling. "I assume you're here to discuss some security matters?"

Behind his desk, Eomer tapped on a document in a folder. "We're reviewing the arrangements Algrin has made for my birthday party at the Ritz."

"You're going to need more," Eowyn said.

Eomer frowned. "Birthday parties?"

"Security arrangements."

Algrin stepped forward, shock etched into his face. "Is there a threat to His Majesty's safety I'm not aware of, ma'am?"

"I'm not sure, Algrin. Does the Earl of Camelor count as a threat?" She addressed her next remark to her brother. "Because I'm fairly sure he wants to kill you right now."

"Your Highness, that's an a _extremely_ serious accusation," Algrin said in a scandalized tone, as if she'd just declared the Earl liked to eat newborn babies for dinner.

Was eating newborn babies for dinner better or worse than wanting to murder the King? She might have to think about that…

Eyes rolling, Eomer waved Algrin off. "Relax, Algrin. She's just being melodramatic." He closed the document folder over and held it out to his security chief. "This all looks good for now, why don't we look at it again tomorrow?" he said—Eomer's way of asking Algrin to make himself scarce so he could deal with his 'troublesome' sister instead.

"Of course, sir," Algrin said, as always, quickly getting the message. "I'll call the security chief at the Ritz, make sure they have our revisions." He took the document from the King, gave him a respectful nod, then aimed another Eowyn's way. "Your Majesty, Your Highness." He showed himself out, pulling the door over behind him.

Eomer leaned back in his chair, extending his legs to rest his feet on his desk. "So, what's Cammie annoyed about now?"

"He's heard a rumour that Solwen Hamelmark is coming back to town."

"He's right. She is."

Of all the answers Eomer could have come out with, this was the one she _hadn't_ expected. "But she's not allowed to _be_ in town."

"You mean because of Uncle Ted's Ban?"

"Well, of _course_ because of Uncle Ted's Ban," Eowyn said, feeling her patience thinning already. "He never rescinded it before he died. That means, technically, it's still in force."

Eomer smirked. "Not anymore, it isn't."

Eowyn's hand clamped into fists. Here she was, rushing to warn Eomer of a problem, and not only did the smirking bastard already know what the problem was, in his mind, he'd also solved it for him. Without breathing a _single_ word about either the problem or the solution to her first. "Eomer, what did you do?" she asked, fighting to keep keep her voice as calm as she could.

"Something I should have done eight years ago."

"Which was?"

"I rescinded Uncle Ted's Ban," he said.

"You rescinded Uncle Ted's Ban?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "Because Solwen Hamelmark asked me to."

"Solwen Hamelmark asked you to revoke her Ban?"

Still frowning, he waved a finger between them. "Okay, is this a me having a problem speaking thing, or a you having a problem hearing me thing?"

"It's a me having a problem believing you would do something thing." Mother of Bema. And he thought _Thenwis_ was the bone-headed one? This was even more idiotic than their cousin's petition.

He held his hands wide. "What the hell is so hard to believe? It was ten years ago, Wynna. Nobody cares."

"Eomer, I'm _quite_ sure the Earl of Camelor cares."

"Apart from him."

" _And_ his brother."

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, apart from anyone in the Camelor family, who the _hell_ really cares?"

"You should have told me," she said, trying to decide who in her phone list to call for help first. Camelor was going to go _nuts_. "Bad enough you slept with his wife. Now, you're basically pardoning the woman who viciously assaulted his brother?"

Eomer shrugged in that stupid, nonchalant way of his. "Sucks to be him, I guess."

In that moment, Eowyn understood exactly how Solwen Hamelmark must have felt. Because right now, more than anything else in the world, she wanted to smack an annoying man in the face. "He'll still want the apology. Just on the principle of the thing."

He pulled his feet off the desk. "We all want things we can't have," he said. "I want my right shoulder not to hurt when it's cold. I want Edoras United to win the King Folca Cup. I want everyone in Rohan to stop discussing my private life as if it's the plotline of the latest hit TV drama. If Camelor's angry with me, he can either come talk to me about it, or suck it up and deal with it like everyone else." Eomer wrinkled his nose. "And he doesn't even _like_ his brother, so I don't know what the hell he's complaining about."

She couldn't help it; she crossed her arms and started to pace.

"Don't do that," Eomer said.

"Do what?"

"Pace like that. I can practically hear the cogs in your brain turning." He glared at her. "I don't like it. It _scares_ me."

She froze mid-pace, hit by a sudden realization. "It was ten years ago," she murmured.

"What was?"

"When everything happened. The thing with Lady Solwen and Camelor's brother."

"That's what Fenbrand told me. But I don't remember precisely."

Hardly surprising, since Eomer had a memory like a sieve. "It was at her father's confirmation, over in the Golden Hall." As she spoke, more of the details came flooding back—she even remembered what dress she'd been wearing. A black one, as it happened. With very good reason. "It was a few months after Theodred died, because when Lady Solwen's grandmother died, Uncle Theoden was still in full mourning, so we represented him at her funeral." She looked to Eomer. "I know you don't have the best memory in the world, but tell me you at least remember _that_? It was a cremation, not the usual burial, remember?" And a well-attended one at that—the crowd that had gathered to watch the pyre must have been at least five hundred strong. "And I sang the second verse of the Lament for the Dead."

Eomer nodded, slowly at first, then more firmly. "I remember that, yes. You had to sing it in Rohirric, so you spent most of the week before trying to learn the words by rote."

And Bema, what an utter _joy_ that process had been. "And she'd just turned eighteen a few days before. Solwen, that is. I remember her father mentioning they'd had to cancel the party they were going to throw for her."

"Uh huh?"

"Which means she's twenty-eight now." And obviously planning to move to Edoras, if she'd asked Eomer to lift her Ban for her.

Eomer narrowed his eyes. "And what if she is?"

"Oh, nothing." She flashed him her most disarming smile. "Don't mind me. Just thinking out loud." And making a mental note to find out if Lady Solwen was single.

"Wynna…"

"What?"

"Did you just mentally add Solwen Hamelmark to some kind of list?"

"What list would that be?" she asked. Other than the list of women he hadn't slept with, of course. Which, sadly, was growing shorter with every passing hour…

"The list of all the unmarried women you're planning to _accidentally_ introduce me to?"

"What makes you think I would ever do that?"

He raised a brow at her.

"Well, why not?" Eowyn said. "She ticks a lot of important boxes. Right age, right background, right education." She didn't know the last part for sure, but it seemed a safe assumption to make, given what family she was from.

"Best right hook this side of Fangorn Forest," Eomer muttered.

She furrowed her brows in mock concern. "What's the matter, Your Majesty? Too scared to date a woman who knows how to throw a good punch?"

"Not at all. I just don't want her to throw them at _me_."

"Don't do anything that would ever make her want to punch you, then." Which shouldn't be _too_ hard, even for him.

"Wynna, if you even think about trying to set me up with a Hamelmark, the Hall will have a collective fit."

"Don't see why it's any of the Hall's business." If he didn't need the Hall's permission to marry, he _certainly_ didn't need it to date. "And even if it was, I refuse to believe the Hamelmarks are as bad as everyone says."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he warned.

"I’m honestly supposed to believe one of them once rode a horse onto the dais in the Golden Hall?"

Eomer nodded. "Fenbrand checked the Archives for me. Was Kalaster Hamelmark, the current earl's grandfather." He leaned forward, grinning. "You wouldn't believe how much it cost to clean up the mess. Not surprised King Thengel wanted to have him executed."

"And that it was a Hamelmark who shot and ate the last ever pair of royal peacocks?"

"Not sure about that one, but can't say I really care." Eomer wrinkled his nose. "Peacocks are arseholes. All that _noise_. And they shit everywhere. If we'd still had them at the start of my reign, I'd have shot them myself."

And no doubt packed them off to the kitchens to be plucked, gutted and roasted as well…

"Well, whatever stories are true, we shouldn't blame Lady Solwen for her ancestors' actions," she said.

Eomer snorted. "Don't need to. Can just blame her for her own actions instead."

"She was _eighteen_ , Eomer." She hadn't been the wisest of people herself at that age, as the business with Aragorn could attest. "And you said Lord Thelden deserved it."

"He did. I told Fenbrand that if he'd said what he said to you, I would have beaten him to a pulp."

Sometimes, he said the _sweetest_ of things. "Then, it shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

Eomer sighed. "Go on, then. Put her on your goddamn list."

"You wouldn't mind if I invite her to the Midsummer party?"

"I thought you finalized that guest list last week."

"I did. But I always leave room for a few late additions."

"Are any of the Camelors coming?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You annoy me, and I sometimes like to make life difficult for you, but even I know where to draw the line." And it wasn't as if she liked the Earl or Lord Thelden, either. She didn't want to socialize with them any more than His Majesty did.

"Then, no, I don't mind."

"Good."

"Just make sure someone frisks her at the front door," he added. "Case she tries to bring in a knuckleduster under her dress."


	13. Chapter 13

**Tuesday April 28, 2020**

Skoosh, spin, skoosh, spin.

The comfortingly monotonous sound of lubing a motorcycle chain.

In Solwen's opinion, it was one of the advantages of owning an older bike model—no silly belt- or shaft-driven nonsense here. Just a good, old-fashioned, O-ring chain that she cleaned and lubed every fourth or fifth ride.

Skoosh, spin, skoosh, spin.

She loved the sound the chain made as it turned. But she could happily live without the smell—she would reek of cleaner and lube for hours. And not even the fun kind of lube at that. No salted caramel flavouring, here.

The door to the main house creaked open—probably her grandfather, coming to check if she wanted another cup of tea. The last one was on the table beside her, still a third full, but long since gone cold.

"Solly!" her grandfather hollered from the side porch, twenty metres away. "The mail just came!"

Which was… a good thing, she guessed?

"There's a letter for you!" he shouted out next.

"I'm just finishing up with the chain!" she hollered back. "Give me five more minutes!" She skooshed the next chunk of chain and spun it again.

"I don't think you'll want to wait five minutes!"

Bema, how important could one letter be? 'Why?" she shouted.

"Because it's got a wax seal with a crowned horse on it!"

Her hand froze mid-skoosh. A crowned horse seal meant a formal Court letter. And not just _any_ formal Court letter—a formal Court letter straight from the King. And there was only one reason why His Blessed Majesty would be writing to her.

She put the lubricant on the table and pushed up from the garage floor, wiping her grime-covered hands on her jeans. She jogged out of the garage and up to the side door, taking the steps two at a time.

Her grandfather was at the door, a cup of tea in one hand, holding a letter out with the other. "Looks like you've got your answer already," he said.

She took the letter, turned it over to look at the seal. The flat wax disc was Rohan green, and the crowned horse symbol was perfectly centered. Whoever had stamped it had a good eye. Or, maybe the Meduseld Palace had a fancy stamping machine.

"I've never had a letter from the King before," she said.

Her grandfather grinned. "I wouldn't get used to it, sweet pea. Unless you're planning on punching more people."

She grinned back. "No more punching people, I promise." Not even if Thelden Camelor threatened to murder her to her face. She knew now what she hadn't known then—that there were better ways to deal with people like him.

"Quick response, though," her grandfather said. "You only wrote to him two weeks ago. Amount of protocol they have in that place, didn't think it would even have reached an actual person by now."

"Trying to decide if that's a good or bad sign." It meant the King hadn't had to think about his answer for long, but from which side of the story? Did he think she was out of her Marcher mind, or that she'd made a perfectly sane request?

And why did a tiny part of her hope His Majesty's answer was 'no'?

"You won't know until you read it."

She took a deep breath and put her thumbs over the wax disc to snap it. Heart pounding, she pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and scanned through the text. "He said 'yes'. He's lifting King Theoden's Ban." Relief flooded through her; she felt slightly light-headed. Finally, her punching penance was done. "Effective as of the date on the letter." That date being the Friday before—no wasting time at the Meduseld Palace.

Her grandfather sighed. "You'll be moving to Edoras, then?"

"I think so, yes."

"You _think_ so?"

How to tell him—she now wasn't completely sure moving to Edoras was the right thing? "I've been doing some thinking since I wrote my letter."

"And?"

"And I still want to go, but I think I want to test the waters before I move there for good," she explained. "I mean, I haven't been there for almost ten years, and like you mentioned, I didn't always like the place back when I had to live there for school."

"I'm sure I remember you telling me once that you wanted to burn the place to the ground."

Another youthful over-reaction. "I was _fourteen_ , grandpa. And I was being picked on at school because of my accent."

"You think it'll be any better now?"

She sighed. "No, it probably won't." If anything, it would be even worse. Finance wasn't the most egalitarian of professions, as her time in Gondor had demonstrated. "I already know, wherever I work in the City, I'm going to be singled out because I'm a Marcher." Anything from gentle teasing and imitating to full-on harassment. "Which is why I'm not going to move there for good just yet."

"So, what's your new plan?" he asked, taking another sip of his tea.

She folded the letter up, slid it into the envelope and pressed the sealing flap shut, leaving a grime-filled fingerprint on the point. "Summer's on the way, and I haven't had any decent time off in years, so I'm going to move to Edoras, kick back, relax, reconnect with some old friends from school"—the one or two classmates she'd actually liked—"get the lay of the land, see what I make of the situation from there."

"And what if you decide you don't like it?"

Good question. If she didn't want to work in the City, where the hell would she find a job then? "Not sure. I think I'll do what granny always used to tell me to do, worry about that problem when it actually becomes a problem."

"That seems like a sensible approach."

His tone was cautious; she could hear what he really wanted to say. "I know you want me to stay here. I know you think none of us should ever set foot in Edoras." Her father, maybe, when the Hall was in session, but certainly not her or her brothers.

"This is your _home_ , sweet pea. The house you and your brothers and your father were born in. It's where you belong." Scowling, he gestured at the horizon. "Not down in Edoras with all those shifty, lying, two-faced pricks."

"That's a _wee_ bit harsh, grandpa," she said. "The politicians are all lying pricks"—including her father, when the occasion demanded—"but I'm quite sure most normal Edorans are all perfectly pleasant people."

His snort told her what he thought of that.

"I'll come back to Isendale with dad and Nediriel when the Hall adjourns for the Midsummer break," she offered.

"And when the break's over, will you go back again?"

She shrugged. "Not sure. Let's wait and see."

"When were you planning to leave?"

"If I'm going to go, I should go soon." Before she chickened out and found a reason to stay here instead. "I was thinking Thursday."

" _This_ Thursday? The one two days away?"

"That one, aye."

Her grandfather sighed. "Well, if you're going to go, you should take the bike with you. She's been stuck in that garage for almost six years. About time she saw some fresh air."

"Was thinking I'd ride her down. There's some nice roads around Edoras I'd like to try out." She would have to ship her stuff to their house in the City, but it wouldn't take much—with all the moving around she'd done, she hadn't accumulated a lot of belongings. And probably best to leave most of them up here for now.

He lifted his cup to drain it. "Why don't you go finish up in the garage, I'll put the kettle on, make us a fresh cup of tea?"

Good old tea—her family's solution to all the world's problems.

Better tea than booze, she supposed. Although, sometimes, they tried that solution as well…

"That sounds perfect." She held the letter out. "Put that on the mantelpiece for me. I'll be done in five minutes."


	14. Chapter 14

**Wednesday April 29, 2020**

Thenwis scanned the petition again.

It was perfect, in every possible way. It was short, clear and to the point, and thanks to the hours of research they'd done, she knew she'd used all the right legal terms, and backed it up with all the right proof. There wasn't a single error in it, from the structure of the opening line, to the way she'd signed her own name.

Not that it would do any good. Not for the immediate future, at least.

All that time, all that effort, all those nights picking through old legal books, and now, the one thing she hadn't planned for had happened. The government had called an election, and Parliament was about to dissolve. Which meant the Hall of Lords would be closed until at least the middle of June. And given how many breaks the Hall would take in the summer months, it might be the start of September before her petition received the attention she felt it deserved.

She picked up the letter, tore it up and swept the pieces into the bin.

It was a petty gesture, but it made her feel better. And it wasn't a permanent loss; the soft copy was on her computer. When the time came, she and her lawyers would start again, write a completely new one from scratch. A better one, even. Next time, they would be able to incorporate some minor nuances they hadn't had time to consider before.

A quick knock on the door; it opened enough for her mother to stick her head in. Her face was taut; something was wrong. "You have a phone call," Eldwis said in a strangely hushed tone.

"It's not Camelor again, is it?" The Earl had called her on Saturday night, raging about the timing of the election, claiming the King was somehow behind it, seeing schemes and plotting in every corner. She was glad to have his support, but his paranoia was starting to be slightly annoying.

"Not Camelor, no. It's your great-grandmother."

Thenwis frowned. "Is nanna okay? I spoke to her last night, she seemed—"

"Your _great_ -grandmother," her mother repeated. "Not nanna. The _Steelsheen."_

Cold prickles ran down Thenwis's neck. The Steelsheen? Making a call to _this_ house? That couldn't be right; the Dowager Queen never called here. Never called anyone these days from what she'd been told, but that wasn't the point. "Did she say what she wants?"

Her mother shook her head. "She didn't, no. And I knew better than to ask. If she's calling for you, she'll only talk to you. You know how she is."

Haughty, determined, wilful, snobbish, often rude, sometimes cruel, expecting always to be obeyed.

Yes, Thenwis knew _exactly_ how the old battle-axe was…

She rose from the desk. "I think I'll take it up in my room."

Ten minutes later, Thenwis wandered downstairs.

She was stunned and shocked, but angry as well. All these years, and only now, because of what she was planning to do, did the high and mighty Dowager Queen finally deign to pay attention to her.

She found her mother out on the terrace, sporting a pair of gardening gloves, kneeling on a padded mat, arranging some new bulbs in a planter. Eldwis stopped and looked up as Thenwis approached. "So, what did she want?" she asked.

"She wants to have lunch with me on Sunday. She says there's something important she needs to discuss." No medals for guessing what that 'something important' was.

"With only you, I assume?"

Thenwis nodded.

"No surprise there," her mother said, angrily digging into the soil. "If she invited _me_ to lunch, she would have to speak to me, and Bema forbid the high and mighty Steelsheen should ever have to communicate with her eldest grandchild's common-born wife."

"She's like that with everyone, mama," Thenwis said softly. Even Eomer and Eowyn, based on the rumours she'd heard, and they were as far from common-born as two Rohanese people could be. For now, at least. "You shouldn't let it bother you."

Her mother sat back on her heels, wiping her glove across her brow. "I know. But it _does_ bother me. If only for your late father's sake." She dug her trowel into the planter again. "So, what did you say?"

"Yes, of course." Thenwis shrugged. "She's the Steelsheen, mama. What choice did I have?"

"What time?"

"Noon."

"I'll make sure Atheluf knows to have the car ready. You'll need to leave here by ten if you want to make it to Aldburg for twelve."

"I'm not going to Aldburg."

Pausing again, her mother frowned. "Where on earth are you going, then?"

"I'm not going anywhere." Now, for the part Thenwis knew her mother would hate. "Mama, she wants to come here."

 _"Here?_ To this house?" her mother asked, pointing her trowel at the ground. "The house she's never once lowered herself to set foot in?"

Sighing, Thenwis nodded. "I'm sorry. I know it's going to be difficult for you." For everyone, including her.

"You worry about the Steelsheen. Let me worry about what's going to be difficult or not." Eldwis placed her trowel on a bench, stood up, pulled off her gloves and used them to brush down her skirt.

"What are you going to do?"

"Right now, I'm going inside to speak to Genessa. Because I think the hardest part of this visit will be coming up with a menu the Steelsheen will eat."

Thenwis had heard all the stories, about what a picky eater the Old Queen was. She'd apparently once reduced a restaurant owner to tears by sending her main dinner dish back to the kitchen four times in a row. "Is she really that fussy?"

"She's a hundred and four. _And_ Gondorian. _And_ an ex-Queen. What do you think?"

"I think you should make whatever you want for the lunch, and if she doesn't like it, she can kiss my non-Landed, common-born arse."

Laughing, shaking her head, her mother moved in to hug her and kiss the side of her head. "You're truly your father's daughter, my love."

And, more to the point, her great-grandmother's great-granddaughter as well.

Queen Morwen was going to find out—she wasn't the only one with a spine of steel.


	15. Chapter 15

**Thursday May 30, 2020**

The half-dead tree at the end of the driveway was gone, replaced with some pretty new bushes, there were different curtains in the windows, the roof had been completely redone, and the trim was a calmer, more elegant colour, but underneath, it was still the enormous, rambling house Solwen had sometimes thought of as home.

She'd lived more in the Isendale house as a child, but this was the house in which she'd marked all the important teenage milestone events—first cigarette, first drink, first joint, learning to drive, learning to ride, first clumsy experiments with sex. Not that any of those milestone events had been standout experiences for her. Especially the sex ones. But however they'd gone, she'd had them all here.

She pulled into the double-wide drive, cruised to an empty spot in front of one of the garage door sections, killed the engine, kicked out the stand and carefully climbed off the bike. As she pulled off her helmet to shake out her hair, she glanced around, checking which of the nosy neighbours were watching. Sure enough, she caught a sheer curtain twitching in one of the windows next door. Good old Lady Darrock again. Bema love the puckered, old dear—her husband and children certainly didn't.

She set her helmet down on the lawn and went to the rear of the bike to undo the bungee cords holding her backpack onto the seat. She'd just dumped the pack on the ground when she heard the front door creak open.

On the doorstep, a man appeared—mid-to-late fifties, five or six centimetres taller than her, with the same light golden brown hair, the same curious piercing blue eyes, the same slightly too square chin and the same slightly too long nose. There was no mistaking where he was from; like her, he was a child of Eorl through and through. She loved him as fiercely as any daughter could, but how she sometimes wished she'd inherited her late mother's delicate Dalish beauty instead.

She rolled her eyes at her dad's appearance. He was barefoot, wearing patched jeans and a casual white tee, smoking a cigarette and holding a bottle of Aldburg Black. He couldn't have looked less like an earl and more like a homeless bum if he'd tried. The only thing missing was a brown paper bag.

"Bit early for beer, don't you think?" she said, gesturing at the bottle. Except, as they both knew, in their family, there was no such thing.

Her dad shrugged as he strolled towards her. "I'm running on Barad-Dûr time today." He strolled to the wall by the garage door to press the button that opened the leftmost of the four sections. "We figured you'd want to park the bike inside, so we cleared a spot out for you." He grinned around his cigarette, perched at the edge of his mouth. "Or, I should say, Astalor cleared a spot out for you."

When the door opened, she saw where he meant—a space beside her dad's silver saloon. She kicked up the stand to roll the bike in, secured it again, went to grab her disc lock from her bag and kneeled down to clamp it around the front disc.

Her dad watched, smiling, apparently amused by how security-conscious she was. "You _do_ remember, we live on the Hill?" he said. "Only the safest and most exclusive suburb in the whole kingdom?"

"Yes, but we're on the shabby North Slope, remember? Not on the South Slope with the really posh people." She stood up to look him up and down. "And speaking of shabby, is this what passes for a dress code in the Hall of Lords these days? Bare feet and ratty old jeans?"

"I'm not sitting right now."

She made a show of heaving a sigh. "For fuck's sake, dad, did you get yourself suspended for calling someone an effing bee again?" Another tendency she'd inherited from him…

Duncan Hamelmark grinned. "Not my fault this time, I swear. The King dissolved Parliament yesterday. The Hall's closed until it returns. Shockingly, they didn't ask me to help with any of the wash-up stuff, so I don't have to work again until June."

In the rush of her move, she'd forgotten all about the election. "Like it's even work when it's in session." Unless standing up to shout at people counted as work.

Her dad huffed. "Young lady, I'll have you know, life in the Hall of Lords can sometimes be _extremely_ stressful."

"Pretty sure the most stressful part of the job for you is deciding who you do or don't want to hit in the face with a chair," she drily pointed out.

He took a last drag, dropped his cigarette on the ground, stubbed it out with a heel and came to pull her into a rib-breaking hug, which she more than happily returned. "Good to have you home, sweet pea," he murmured, kissing her on the side of the head. He smelled of cigarettes, aftershave and coffee. "Edoras hasn't been anywhere near as exciting without you."

"Not sure Thelden Camelor would feel the same way."

He waved her away. "Don't worry about him. He's got bigger problems to deal with right now."

"Oh?"

"Was in The Edoras Times this morning, the investment firm he works for is being investigated for securities fraud."

"Well, _that's_ unfortunate."

"Not for you or me, it isn't." He beckoned her into the house. "But enough about the Camelors. Come on in, let's get you settled, find you something decent to drink."

He brought down the garage door; she went to grab her helmet and pack from where she'd abandoned them on the drive. "My stuff arrived yet?" she asked as she followed him into the house.

He nodded. "Was delivered last night. We already put it up in your old room for you."

"By which you mean you watched and gave orders while Astalor did all the work."

"One of the few advantages of being an earl. You get to give your children orders they're legally not allowed to refuse."

"My father, the budding tyrant," she said.

"Stick around for a few months, you'll find out just how tyrannical I can be."

What a load of crap—he was as tyrannical as a three-day-old puppy…

She stopped in the entrance hall to look up, taking in the always-amazing view of the Folcwine Era wooden staircase winding up and around. She didn't envy Astalor, having to carry her heavy bags all the way up to the top floor. She would bung him a couple of tenners for his efforts later.

She glanced in the rooms that lay off the hall. The layout didn't appear to have changed, and most of the furniture was the same—they still had all the inherited, heirloom pieces she knew her dad would never get rid of—but there were some newer, more modern pieces as well, and the décor had been completely updated.

She waved at the walls. "I like the new colour. It's rather soothing." Pale moss green was what she would call it.

"Nediriel's choice. She redid everything six months ago." He gestured for her to follow him through to the back of the house. "She really went to town. Whole place looks like something out of a décor magazine, now."

She peeked in some other rooms as they walked. He wasn't kidding. All the weird, old colour schemes were gone, replaced with a palette of sophisticated neutral tones. "It's lovely. She did a great job."

"Sure she'll appreciate hearing that."

"You don't like it?"

"I don't _dislike_ it." He wrinkled his nose. "Just feels a little too Gondorian for my tastes."

"You mean, it's elegant and tasteful?"

"That, yes."

"Bema forbid."

She placed her pack and helmet on the breakfast room table and shucked out of her riding coat to hang it around one of the chairs. "She not at home right now?" From the fact he'd been smoking in the house, Solwen suspected the answer was 'no'.

Her dad shook his head. "She's out at some thing for ladies who lunch. Says 'hi', sends her love, she's looking forward to seeing you tonight."

"What about Astalor?" She didn't ask about Erland—he'd texted her late last night to let her know he wouldn't be home until six.

"He's out at the pub with some friends. Also says 'hi', and he'll catch up with you tomorrow."

Out at the pub with some friends with his final exams a few weeks away. Yep. That sounded like her younger half-brother. "He figured out what he's doing with his life yet?"

"Not sure. Have you?"

"Funny."

In the sunny family kitchen, her dad went to the fridge to pull out a beer and hand it to her. She really shouldn't, not until later, but who could refuse an ice cold bottle of Aldburg Black after a three hour ride in the wind, rain and sun? She twisted the cap, held out the bottle to clink it to his. "Here's to being home," she said.

"Wherever home is."

She knew now where home was for her. Not Mordor, not Gondor, not Dunland, not Dale. Only Rohan was home, but _where_ in Rohan remained to be seen. "Where's Hedwin?" she asked, only now realizing she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the housekeeper.

"She took the rest of the day off."

"And left the Earl of Hamelmark to fend for himself?" Tutting, Solwen shook her head. " _Shocking_ behaviour. Should fire her, then have her flogged."

He threw a kitchen towel at her. "I _gave_ her the rest of the day off. Wanted some catch-up time with my daughter without other people hanging around."

"You say that as if we have something scandalous to catch up on." She grabbed the towel from the floor and threw it onto a counter.

"Don't we?"

"Not that I'm aware of, no."

"So, you're not going to tell me about the letter?"

"What, from the King?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, smartarse, the letter from the cave trolls. Of _course_ , the letter from the King."

"Anyone ever tell you, sarcasm's the lowest possible form of humour?"

"We're Hamelmarks, sweet pea. Low humour suits us. We've never been high and lofty people."

"Speaking of high and lofty people..." She went to the breakfast room to grab her pack, unzipped a side pocket, pulled out the letter and brought it back to hold it out to him.

He reached out to take it, turning it over to check the wax seal on the back. He let out a low whistle. "Straight from the mighty Horse Lord himself."

She shrugged. "Or, from whichever one of his many minions dealt with it for him."

He put down his beer to pull out and open the letter. His eyes immediately jumped to the bottom. "Looks like he actually signed it," he said, tapping on the angular, oversized 'E'.

Something she hadn't noticed herself until she'd read the letter for the third time. "I saw that. But I think he'd have to, for it to be legally binding, I mean."

"I'd think so, aye." He snickered as he scanned the text. "I think this is the longest and fanciest way of saying 'yes' I've _ever_ seen."

"You know how people from Edoras think. Why use two words when ten words will do?" Grinning, she reached over to point at the end of the note. "I think I like the last line the most."

He rolled his eyes as he found what she meant. In an overly-pompous, upper-class Edoran accent, he read, "On the understanding there will be no further expression of the unseemly behaviour which led to the imposition of the original Ban." Sighing, he swigged on his beer. "Fenbrand really outdid himself there."

"Fenbrand?"

"Fenbrand Ravensmark. The King's Senior Private Secretary. He's probably the one who wrote this. Real bootlicker. You know the type."

"That's a bit disappointing."

"What, that the King's Senior Private Secretary is a real bootlicker?"

She shook her head. "That the King puts up with his Senior Private Secretary being a real bootlicker. I've only met him once, the King, I mean, not this Fenbrand guy, and I only spoke to him for a few minutes, but he didn't seem like the kind who needed to have his boots licked." Quite the opposite, in fact. He'd been positively unassuming—a rare thing indeed in the Landed Houses, where the standard approach for most people was to act as if your own shit didn't stink.

"Was ten years ago. Maybe being King for eight years has changed that. Maybe now, he likes to have his boots licked."

She snickered. "And other body parts as well, I hear."

"You've read about that?"

"Hard not to, given the amount of coverage it's had in the papers."

Her dad sighed. "Bema love the man, but he does like to put it around a bit."

More than a bit, based on what the papers were saying. "Not sure any man who's had three children by three different women has the right to criticize somebody else for putting it around a bit."

"Least I married all of your mothers first. More than His Philandering Majesty's ever managed to do."

"You could always offer to give the King lessons. You probably know more about marrying people than all of the other earls in the Hall put together." She prepped a good poke. "Except maybe the Earl of Camelor. He seems to be quite good at it as well."

As she'd expected, that earned her a dirty glare. "You _ever_ put me in the same sentence as the Earl of Camelor again, young lady, I'll throw you out on your ear and cut you off without a penny."

"Go right ahead," she said, pulling a stool out to take a seat. "If the King's Ban didn't hurt me, your petulant tantrums certainly won't." And it wasn't as if she needed his money—she had more than enough of her own in the bank.

Grinning, he put the letter away and handed it back. "Should frame it, put it up on your wall. It'll be as close to meeting the King as any of us will ever get."

"We're still not rubbing elbows with the great and good then?"

"Afraid not, no. And that's not because of what you did," he quickly added. "Even before the Thelden thing, we weren't moving in royal circles, because of what happened between your great-grandfather and King Thengel. And I don't think our situation's going to change anytime soon."

"That bother you?"

"Me?" Her dad shook his head. "Not at all, no. Not the kind of social circle I've ever been interested in joining. Think it bothers Nediriel sometimes. Don't think she understands how she can be a Rohanese countess and _not_ be in with the royal set."

"It's not who we are. We don't play that game."

"We don't lick boots in this house, right?"

She banged her fist on the counter. "We're Hamemlarks, dammit. You bet your Marcher arse we don't."

He reached out to clink his bottle to hers.

"Have to say, though, I'm impressed with how quickly they turned it around," he said. "The letter, I mean."

"Grandpa said the same thing." Just not as politely, of course. "I honestly expected them to either completely ignore me, or make me wait for six months."

"Don't see why you even bothered to ask. Pretty sure the whole King's Ban thing is a crock of shit. Might have worked a hundred years ago, but there's this pesky thing called a Constitution now. _And_ a Charter of Rights. Both of which even His Blessed Majesty has to respect. He's got no authority whatsoever to tell you where you can or can't live."

"I thought it would be the polite thing to do."

"What would you have done if he'd refused?"

She grinned. "Ignored him, moved here anyway?" Then hired a lawyer to help her sue, with the King's official refusal letter as item of interest number one.

He patted her shoulder. "That's my girl."

"It's like granny always used to say—"

"—Resistance is the first step on the road to justice," he finished.

"Exactly."

"But maybe now, don't do quite so much resisting with your fists?" he suggested.

"It was one time," she said. An explanation she was still going to be giving when she was in her eighties, it seemed. "And you're a fine one to talk. You've punched way more people than I have."

"Yes, but I'm much older and wiser than you. _And_ I'm your father. You should know by now, it's do as I say, not as I do." He finished his beer. "And speaking of things resisting, how'd the Shadowfax do on the way down? She give you any trouble?"

"A little bit, yes."

"Let me guess. The electrics, right?"

"It's a Shadowfax, dad. When is it ever anything else?"

He threw his bottle into the recycling bin, switched on the kettle and pulled a mug out of an overhead cupboard. The mug she'd given him four years ago—large and white, with a chip in the rim and 'Cool Dads Say Fuck' emblazoned on it in massive black letters. "Your granny loved that bike almost as if it was a second child, but I'm pretty sure I learned all the best Dunnish swear words I know listening to her trying to persuade the lights to stay on."

"Lights are working just fine. But I had to switch her off when I stopped to refill at the Hornburg junction. When I went to start her up again, that's when she decided to play silly buggers with me."

"How'd you fix it?"

"I didn't. The slip road out was on a slight hill, so I pushed her out of the station and bumped her."

He turned to give her a fatherly glare. "Don't like it when you do that, sweet pea. It's dangerous. You could get yourself killed."

"I've done it before. It was perfectly safe."

"Your grandpa put a new battery in before you came home, so it can't be that."

"It's not the battery. I think she has a ground or a short in the system." Something tricky, that only a full diagnostic check would find.

"If you want to keep her, you should probably get the whole harness replaced. Put in something better and newer."

"Was thinking that, yeah. And I'm not taking her out again until it's fixed. Bad enough to be calling you to come rescue me when I'm eighteen. Bit embarrassing to still be doing it when I'm twenty-eight."

He grabbed a box of tea, picked out a bag and dropped it into his mug. "Rescuing my kids is my job."

"I thought being the Earl of Hamelmark was your job."

"Okay, then _one_ of my jobs."

"I'll phone round some places tomorrow, see if anywhere has anyone who knows how to take a ninety-four Shadowfax apart."

"Ask your grandpa. He knows all the best people."

"In Isendale, yes."

Her dad shook his head. "Here in Edoras as well."

"Since when does grandpa know anyone in Edoras? He fucking _hates_ the place. He barely acknowledges it even exists."

"True, but do you have any idea how many Marchers live in this city?" The switch on the kettle popped; he grabbed it to pour some water into his mug. "It's not just us and the Amerwens, sweet pea. There's probably more of us down here than in some smaller March towns."

But that was economic migration for you—people moving to where the jobs were. "I'll call grandpa later, then."

"No rush. Let's get you settled in first."

Later that night, once she'd settled in and unpacked her stuff (and negotiated a thirty quid fee with Astalor for moving her stuff), she called her grandfather to tell him about the bike's latest issue.

"Dad said you might know where in Edoras I could take it."

"I know _exactly_ where in Edoras you should take it."

This sounded promising. "And where's that?"

"To your cousin, Brendal."

Bema, not this 'cousin' business again. "He's not really my cousin, grandpa." And she'd only met him a couple of times, barely knew the man from Beor.

"His mum's a Giantsbane, lass. That's good enough for me. And if you're the woman we raised you to be, it'll be good enough for you as well. Never mind these Edoras folks. You stick with Brendal, he'll see you right."

It was endearing, really, how much faith he put in his fellow Marchers. "You think he'll know how to fix the 'fax?"

He barked a quick laugh. "Sweet pea, he's one of the best bike mechanics in the whole kingdom. He used to work for one of the big racing teams. If he can't fix it, _nobody_ can."

"Who's he working for now?"

"No idea. His mum told me a while ago, but I don't remember."

Probably one of the dealerships over in the AutoMall district. Less glamorous than a racing team, but probably less demanding as well.

"Go on, then. Give me his number," she said, grabbing a pen and a pad of paper from her bedside table. There was no point in arguing with him. If she didn't want to take it to Brendal, she would have to find a mechanic herself.

"When you call him, tell him his Uncle Haradoc said hello."


	16. Chapter 16

**Sunday May 3, 2020**

He must be at the wrong house. This couldn't possibly be where his 'Uncle' Haradoc lived.

It wasn't even a house. Houses didn't have three floors, or sit at the end of a tree-lined drive, behind a verdant, manicured lawn the size of a miniature football pitch, next to a matching four car garage. _He_ lived in a house. His parents up in Isendale, _they_ lived in a house. His sister in Heathfells, _she_ lived in a house. And a fairly nice one at that. But _this_ building? This was no mere house—this was a _fucking mansion_. And not one of those cookie-cutter mansions either—the kind they were stamping out by the dozen over in Harrowdale Hills. An honest-to-Gods authentic mansion. The kind of mansion only people with old money could buy.

And granted, it wasn't on the fanciest part of the Hill—the houses over on the South Slope were even larger and grander again—but between the building and the land, this one must be worth at least fifteen million. Maybe more, depending on how much of a usable garden it had at the back.

Brendal pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket to compare the address he'd scribbled on it to the plaque at the side of the door.

The numbers matched—he was at the right place.

He reminded himself to phone his mum later, ask her to tell him again what the fuck Uncle Haradoc did. Brendal had only met the man a few times, couldn't remember for the life of him what line of work he was in. Obviously, a prosperous one, if his granddaughter lived in a place like this.

At the smaller mansion next door—small enough to actually be just a house—a lacy, white curtain twitched. Probably some prying old biddy, taking in his tattoos and his casual clothes, deciding he was a thief, casing the street for easy pickings. Not helped by the fact he'd driven here in a shabby, nondescript van instead of a liveried Crown Estate vehicle. He made a silent bet with himself about how soon the Citadel Guard would appear, asking to see some photo ID, demanding to know what the fuck a good-for-nothing Marcher like him was doing in such a nice part of town.

He stuffed the piece of paper back in his pocket and went to the double-wide front door to press the bell. From somewhere inside, footsteps approached, not rushing, but not lingering either. To his surprise, the door was opened, not by a housekeeper or maid as was often the case at houses like this, but by a young woman.

And a quite attractive young woman at that. Tall—maybe five centimetres shorter than him—with wavy, shoulder length, brown hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. And nice legs. And quite lovely tits.

She smiled and pointed a finger at him. "Brendal, right?" she said before he could introduce himself. Her Marcher accent surprised him. It was a posh one—she spoke the same way Isendale newsreaders spoke—but there was no mistaking where she was from. For some reason, maybe because of where the house was, he'd assumed she would sound like the King.

He wasn't quite sure how to address her. "Yes, ma'am, that's me." Except, given her age and likely marital status, should he have called her 'miss' instead? Fuck it. He'd said what he'd said; it would just have to do. He was a motorcycle mechanic, not the Senior Comptroller of the Lord Chamberlain's Office.

She came forward to hold out a hand. "I'm Solwen," she said. "It's lovely to meet you again."

Again? Shit. Had they already met?

She grinned. "You don't remember meeting me, do you?"

He took the hand to give it a shake, pleased to discover she had a no-nonsense grip. "In my defense, I'm not very good with names, and I meet an awful lot of people."

"Also in your defense, you only met me properly once, and it was almost twelve years ago, up at the Isendale house."

The Isendale house. Yes, he remembered that now. And Bema, how fucking rich must these people be, if this was just their house in the city? "It was someone's coming-of-age party, wasn't it?"

She nodded. "My older half-brother, Erland's, yes. He's the heir, so we invited pretty much the whole town. Mine wasn't anywhere _near_ as big."

"If it's the party I'm thinking of, it was a _hell_ of a night."

"It certainly was. I tried to drink a whole bottle of Hornburg Red, puked my lungs up all over my grandfather's shoes."

That rang a vague bell. Someone had puked at one point, but it had been a party in Isendale, so that almost went without saying. "If it's any consolation, I've seen grown men do the same thing. Hornburg Red's a pretty mean beer."

"Would you believe, I still can't stand the smell of the stuff?" She briefly stepped back into the house to stick her feet in some slip-on shoes and to grab a key from a shelf. "But enough about my teenage delinquency years. Let's go look at the 'fax."

As they approached the garage, a vehicle appeared on the main road, painted in dark green and black, sporting the horse and shield badge of the Citadel Guard. It slowed as it moved past the house—he caught a quick glimpse of a man's peering face—then picked up speed and drove away.

Sometimes, he really fucking _hated_ this town.

Her eyes followed his gaze. "It's just the Guard on patrol. Nothing to worry about."

"Aye, but I'm pretty sure the only thing they're patrolling is me," he said. "Your neighbours probably took one look at me when I turned up and decided I was here to rob the whole street."

She waved at the house where the curtains had twitched. "It'll be Lady Darrock again. She's a nosy, interfering old cow, the head of the local Neighbourhood Watch. She does a lot of watching, but she's the least neighbourly person I've ever met. Oh, and she doesn't like Marchers. Thinks we're all drunken, good-for-nothing scum." She patted his shoulder. "Don't you worry. Once the Shadowfax is fixed, I'll make a point of riding it past her house at two in the morning at six thousand revs, and doing all my maintenance work on the drive. Between the noise and the mess, she'll have a stroke."

He decided then, that whatever the difference in their social backgrounds and ages, he and this Solwen lassie were going to be friends.

At the garage, she punched a code into the number pad on the wall. They stood back, waiting for the first section of the four-section door to trundle open. "Here she is," she said, leading him inside.

He let out a low whistle. He'd expected nice, but this wasn't just nice—this was fucking _astounding_. "That is an absolutely _amazing_ machine."

"Something to look at, isn't she?"

He circled the bike, crouching down to peer into its nooks and crannies. He'd studied this make and model so much, he could probably draw the engine layout in his sleep. "You said she's a ninety-four?"

She nodded. "The last year they used the straight-twin engine. They switched to a v-twin the following year."

"Don't remind me."

"Not a fan of v-twins, then?"

"I like them just fine. But on this bike"—he tapped the gleaming white and red tank—"the change was a bloody disaster. They got rid of the vibration problem, but they fucked up the centre of gravity, and made it look as ugly as sin. They should have left it as a straight, added some counterbalancing instead."

"You ever owned one?"

He shook his head. "Always wanted to, and there's plenty of them on the market, but they're mostly only good for parts or scrap. You almost never see people selling them in decent condition. And _never_ as pristine as this." He ran his fingers along one of the chrome exhausts. "It looks like you've barely used it."

"This bike was my grandmother's pride and joy. She rode it, but she looked after it like it was one of her kids."

He could understand that. If this bike was his, he wouldn't even ride it—he would clean it up to showroom condition and put it up on a shelf on his wall.

"She told me she got it right off the line," she added. "Said she went for a tour of the Mearas factory, saw it, fell in love with it, bought one from them right then and there."

He couldn't remember who her grandmother was. What he had of a memory told him she'd been someone important, and that the houses and money were hers. He must have met her, at least once, if she was married to Haradoc. Or, _had_ been married to Haradoc, rather. "She's passed, isn't she? Your grandmother, I mean?" He remembered some kind of wake, up at the Isendale house again, but couldn't remember who it had been for.

"Just over ten years ago, yes. She left the 'fax to me. I was the only member of the family who'd shown any interest in it. She knew I would take good care of it."

"You've certainly done that. She's immaculate."

"I'm ashamed to admit, it's mostly my grandfather's work. I've been living abroad for the last eight years, I took her out as much as I could when I came home for the holidays, but he's been looking after her for me."

"Don't suppose you'd be willing to sell it?" He wasn't even thinking about himself—he couldn't afford it, and wouldn't have room for it even if he could—but he knew how much the King would love to own an original 'fax 500. It wouldn't quite be the crown jewel of his collection—that slot would always belong to the 'foot—but it would probably come a close second. And, it might earn him a nice finder's bonus. The King was usually generous that way.

"Do you want the polite answer, or the honest one?" she said, grinning.

"I'll take that as a 'no', then."

"No offense, but I think I'd rather sell myself first."

He was about to say, she might need to, to cover the cost of the repairs, until he remembered where he was standing. She could probably pay the bill ten times over and not even blink.

She was rich, and pretty, and she liked bikes.

And she had nice tits.

Hmm.

Maybe, when he got back to the Palace, he should give the King her number…

She put the key in the ignition, turned it to 'On' and reached over to hit the starter button.

Absolutely nothing happened. The engine didn't so much as cough.

She stood back, waving at it. "Like I said on the phone, the electrics are fucked. I think the whole harness needs to come out."

"I can take care of that."

"Not too complicated for you?"

He tried not to laugh. "Lass, I spent most of last month reprogramming the fuel injection control chip on a Firefoot S1000RR. I think I can handle putting a new electric harness in a twenty-six-year-old bike."

"Apologies, I meant no offence."

He waved her off. "Aye, don't worry, you're fine." _He_ knew he could do the work in his sleep, but _she_ didn't. "And to be fair, there's a lot of dealerships in town where the lads in the back shop might _not_ know how to replace a harness in a bike as old as this." And might not do a proper job of it even if they did.

"That's probably why my grandfather told me to call you." Frowning, she made a winding motion with her finger. "Okay, sorry, can we back up a bit there. Did you just say you look after a _Firefoot S1000RR_?"

Him and his big fucking mouth. It wasn't exactly an official state secret what kind of motorbike the King rode, and there weren't a lot of Firefoots in town, so now she could figure out where he worked. "That's right."

"That's a _seriously_ high-end piece of machinery," was all she said.

Or, maybe his 'secret' was safe. "It is."

"Are they as gorgeous in the flesh as they look in the photos?"

"They're even nicer."

She grinned. "Any chance you'd ever let me have a look at it?"

He should have known that was coming; it was almost always the first question bike people asked when they found out what he looked after. "It's possible it could be arranged." Look, yes. Touch, never. Trying to divert, he waved at the 'fax. "Any chance you'd let me take this for a spin?"

"Of course." She switched the bike off and pulled out the key. "But you'll want to fix the electrics first. Nothing ruins your day like going for a ride, and having to phone someone to ask for help because your starter's decided it doesn't want to play ball."

He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time it's happened. I've been stranded at the side of a road more times than I care to remember."

"You're not a proper biker until you break down in the middle of fucking nowhere in a raging thunderstorm, right?"

"With only a pocket pressure gauge and your trusty tire plug kit to save you."

"So, where is it your work?"

"Sorry?"

"You're in a shop, right? Is it a dealership? Or are you in a private place?"

"A private place." Technically, that wasn't a lie. "We look after a small but demanding clientele." Also not a lie. Especially the demanding part. The number of times the King had come down to the garage to check how the work on the fuel injection unit was going? He'd been like an expectant father, waiting for his kid to be born. By the time it was done, boss or not, king or not, Brendal had been ready to murder the man in his sleep.

"And are you somewhere close by?"

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Just up the hill."

"Do you have time to take the job on?"

"I should be able to squeeze it in, yes."

"And I won't get you into any trouble?"

"Not at all." If this worked out the way he hoped, quite the opposite, in fact. But it was nice she'd cared enough to ask—another tick in her already well-marked plus points column.

"I guess that only leaves one question to answer."

"What's that?"

Grinning, she threw the key to him. "When can I have her back?"


	17. Chapter 17

It wasn't _quite_ the most obvious setup Eomer had ever seen, but it was certainly a top five contender.

Unfortunately, as with so many of his problems these days, the situation was all his own fault.

He should have remembered when they were putting the guest list for this dinner together that inviting an odd number of guests was never a good idea. Eowyn _despised_ odd numbers, and rightly so, he supposed, since it inevitably left one side of the table with more guests than the other, and the guests on the 'quieter' side sitting slightly too far apart to easily allow for convivial conversation.

It wasn't at all surprising then, that when he'd signed off on a dinner with seven guests, and forgotten to ask someone to think of an eighth, that Eowyn would fill the breach for him. Without bothering to tell him, of course. And why would she? He was only the King. Why on earth did _he_ need to know what was going on in his own palace?

So, here the eight of them were—himself, Eowyn, the Dalish ambassador and his wife, the Foreign Secretary and her husband, and Fenbrand, a man for whom the phrase 'confirmed bachelor' had been invented. But instead of giving the empty spot to an unmarried woman of Fenbrand's social background and age, who had Eowyn invited but the Foreign Secretary's daughter? Her rather attractive, very single, only-child-of-an-outrageously-wealthy-father daughter?

And, as if that wasn't bad enough, someone—he didn't know who, but he had his suspicions—had also decided that _Fenbrand_ would escort Eowyn into dinner, not Eomer, as protocol usually required, conveniently leaving His Majesty free to escort the young lady instead.

Why Eowyn hadn't just ordered him and Miss Farradale to retire to his room, get naked, have lots of sex, then sit down and figure out the wording of their engagement announcement, he wasn't quite sure. It certainly couldn't have been any less subtle than what she'd actually done.

The only upside of the whole arrangement so far was that Miss Farradale was proving to be better company than he'd expected. _Excellent_ company, in fact. And he couldn't deny, she was stunning to look at, with legs that seemed to go on for miles, hair so blonde it was almost white, flawless skin, perfect teeth and cheekbones he could cut himself on. He might not want to marry her, but he would certainly be willing to try some other 'entertainments' with her.

Maybe, occasionally, Eowyn knew a thing or two after all…

Right now, they were all out on the terrace, admiring the evening view of the city over some pleasant pre-dinner drinks. Somehow—he wasn't quite sure how—he and Miss Farradale had drifted away from the rest of the group. And nobody seemed to be in any rush to sweep them back into the herd. Not Eowyn. Not Fenbrand. And certainly not Miss Farradale's mother. She kept looking over at them with this hopeful, faraway gleam in her eye, as if she was imagining what her daughter would look like wearing a crown, or how attractive her royal grandchildren would be. It was slightly unsettling, to say the least.

Miss Farradale smiled. "I was wondering, Your Majesty, what are your thoughts on the election campaign so far? Do you think the Prime Minister is going to be re-elected?"

A fair question, but unfortunately, one he wasn't permitted to answer. He smiled to soften the blow. "I'm afraid I can't comment on that. For constitutional reasons, you understand. The King is supposed to remain politically neutral." He certainly didn't feel neutral about what the calling of the election had meant for his cousin's petition—he'd wanted to take an arm-waving victory lap around the quadrangle.

Her smile faltered slightly, but quickly reasserted itself. "Of course. Forgive me. How silly of me to forget."

"Not silly at all. Your mother's an extremely successful politician." And a potential future Prime Minister, if the backroom chatter was to be believed. "It's entirely normal you'd want to know what other people think of current affairs. And just because I'm not allowed to state my opinion doesn't mean I don't actually have one."

"It must be frustrating, to have to stay silent on such important matters even when they cause you concern."

"Sometimes, yes. But it's part of my job." He leaned close to whisper, "And between you and me, I don't think I'll be taking my weekly audience with anyone else anytime soon."

"That does seem to be the story the polls are telling," she whispered back.

"It does. But don't tell anyone I said that." He grinned. " _Especially_ not your mother."

Her own grin was coy and flirtatious. "Your Majesty, my lips are sealed."

Was it terrible, that he didn't want her lips to be sealed? He was quite sure they could have more fun when her lips were open…

"Speaking of jobs, may I ask, what line of work are you in?" he said.

"I run an animal rescue charity, sir."

Well, wasn't that lovely? Attractive, single and rich, and now she saved fluffy creatures in her spare time? That was four of the six qualities to make a perfect Queen Consort right there. By the end of the night, would she manage to tell him how much she loved meeting people and waving as well? "What kind of animals?" he asked. Probably puppies. Or maybe kittens. She seemed like the kitten type to him.

"Pigeons, Your Majesty."

Or maybe she didn't. " _Pigeons_?"

"Pigeons, yes." Her brow developed the slightest of frowns. "They're extremely misunderstood animals, sir."

They certainly were. As long as by 'misunderstood', she meant 'shitting rats with wings'.

"They're lovely birds once you get to know them, sir. Very loyal, and just _brimming_ with personality. And did you know, pigeons mate for life?"

So, even a bird could do a better job with its marital arrangements than him. "That's absolutely fascinating. I honestly had no idea."

Sometimes, it actually scared him what an _amazing_ liar he was…

She nodded. "And, we shouldn't forget, sir, the contribution they've made to Rohanese society."

That one completely stumped him.

"The messenger service, sir," she explained. "Before we invented the telegram, pigeons were the backbone of our internal communication system."

"Of course. How foolish of me to forget."

He mentally groaned as her eyes lit up; he was about to receive a pigeon-themed lecture. "Did you know, a pigeon can find its way back to its home nest from up to a thousand kilometres away?" she said.

"Really?"

"And that a pigeon once carried a data chip full of information to a destination faster than a computer network was able to send it?"

"You don't say?"

"And that they understand the concept of space and time?"

"Isn't that something?"

But they couldn't understand the concept of not taking a crap on his car. Or, even worse, on one of his bikes. She might not feel so enthusiastic about them if she knew how much a repaint job on a custom Firefoot cost.

With the finest example of perfect timing Eomer had _ever_ seen—timing so good, it almost made Eomer want to knight him right there and then—Bregdan appeared on the terrace. He gave a small bow. "Your Majesty, Your Highness, Your Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served."

Eomer held out his right arm to escort Miss Farradale into dinner. "Shall we?" he said.

Smiling, she set her hand on his wrist.

As they made their way to the dining room, she leaned over to whisper, "I've never attended a formal dinner at the Meduseld Palace before, Your Majesty. I'm not entirely sure what to expect."

"Nothing too different from any other pleasant dinner," he told her. "Good food, good wine, good company."

"It's just, I'm not very good with complicated cutlery, sir."

"Quite alright. Neither am I."

She giggled. "If you don't mind, I'll just follow your example, then."

"Not at all."

As always, the table was beautifully laid, with the high-backed chairs at either end for Eowyn and himself, and three well-spaced settings along each side. They were using the smaller of the two gold cutlery sets (and really, who made cutlery out of _gold_ ), the Silmaril Crystal goblets and the antique Tronvene dinner service—plain white, with the royal sigil in the middle and a tasteful edging of green and gold. It wasn't the full formal layout they used at state banquets—there were only two forks, and a mere three glasses—but it would still be intimidating for anyone who didn't know exactly what they all meant.

Not to worry. He would keep his dinner companion on track.

He saw Miss Farradale to her seat, then moved round to stand at his own. With perfect, practised coordination, eight footmen stepped up to push the chairs in.

On his right, the Dalish ambassador leaned in.

"I'm told, Your Majesty, that you have one of the finest chefs in the west."

"He's very good, yes," Eomer says. Not that he bothered too much with food—he was as happy to eat a toasted cheese sandwich as he was a fine filet mignon—but he understood these things were important. One had to be seen to be making an effort, even when one didn't much care.

"Am I correct in thinking you stole him from one of the royal houses in Gondor?"

One of Eowyn's coups. They would have to hide the chef at the upcoming banquet, make sure the royals in question didn't attempt to steal him right back. "Such an _ugly_ word, don't you think? I'm sure The Princess Royal would prefer to say she tempted him away instead."

The ambassador grinned and dipped his head. "Tempted, of _course_ , sir, yes." They paused as Bregdan reached in to fill their water goblets. "But I'm looking forward to seeing what he's prepared for us tonight," the ambassador added. "Do you know, what's on the menu for us?"

"Sadly, no." No soup spoon, so that was a clue. "The Princess Royal takes care of that. But she has excellent taste. It will be something interesting, I'm sure."

Just not stuffed pigeon, he hoped…

Later, once the guests had been fêted, watered and fed—with fish and beef, as it turned out, and thankfully, not an ounce of pigeon in sight—Eomer retreated to the safety of his apartments.

Miss Farradale had been a perfectly lovely dinner companion, but she wasn't the woman for him. He couldn't put his finger on why, although the pigeon business didn't help.

He slipped out of his dinner jacket, pulled off his dark green cumberbund and matching bow tie and popped his top two buttons. God, that felt good. He didn't know what masochist had invented this particular form of formal wear—probably some chinless Gondorian dandy—but whoever they were, they deserved to be torn apart between two horses. But it could have been even less pleasant; at least it hadn't been a full white tie event. Those were the absolute worst.

He threw the tie and band on the table and went to his sideboard to pour himself a glass of Dunharrow.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," he called out, reaching for a second glass, already sure of who it would be.

Sure enough, his sister appeared. And where the hell had she found time to change? She'd retreated from the dinner with him, and her rooms were further away, but somehow, she'd already managed to ditch the diamonds, heels and full-length dress and take her hair out of its elaborate braids.

He poured her a measure and handed it to her.

"So, what did you think of Miss Farradale?" she asked.

"I think she's a perfectly lovely young woman. Kind, intelligent, well-educated, well-informed, and a _hell_ of a looker. I'm not sure I could think of a single bad thing to say about her." Even her knowledge of cutlery settings had been impeccable in the end—that he'd noticed, she hadn't looked to him for guidance once.

"Well, that's a good start."

"Oh, yes. Except for the fact she rescues _pigeons_ for a living."

Eowyn's glass froze halfway to her mouth. "I'm sorry, she _what_?"

"You're not seriously telling me you didn't know? Princess I Know Everything About Everyone?"

"Her mother told me she runs a bird sanctuary. I assumed she meant for something nice, like eagles, or hawks."

" _Pigeons_ , Wynna. She rescues pigeons for a living. Not birds so much as flying rats."

"I'm sorry. I honestly had no idea."

"Not that it matters. She's a perfectly lovely young woman, but I'm not interested in seeing her again."

"If it's the pigeon thing, I'm sure I could persuade her to take up rescuing dogs or horses instead."

He kicked off his shoes, flopped onto a couch and stuck out his feet to rest them on the coffee table. "It's not about what she does for a living. We just didn't click."

"Click?"

"You know, when you meet someone, and you feel like you've really made a connection with them?"

"Clicking, hmm." She went to claim her usual seat. "Tell me, is that what happened when you met Gwenna Freebourn?"

"As it happens, yes—" he turned to glare at her. "How do you know about Gwenna Freebourn?"

She flashed a triumphant smile. "I warned you I would find out. And before you complain, no, it wasn't Colwenna who told me."

Which meant people in the palace were talking. "I'm going to have everyone who knew about it killed."

She let out a weary sigh. "Eomer, can I give you some useful advice?"

"Is it about who I should marry?"

"Not this time, no."

"Is it about _when_ I should marry?"

"I'm not going to talk about marriage at all."

That made a refreshing change. He dipped his head in consent. "Then, by all means, go ahead."

"Can you _please_ come up with another way of expressing your annoyance with people? Because the number of times I've heard you threaten to have people killed in the last three weeks, if we actually carried out the executions, there would be nobody in the palace left."

"It's just me blowing off steam. Not like I'm _actually_ going to do it."

" _I_ know that, and _you_ know that, but if someone who didn't know you well overheard you, they might start to think you were suffering from some kind of psychosis."

"No psychosis. I'm just annoyed by the way people gossip."

"Behave, then," she said as if that was the simplest thing in the world. "Don't give them anything to gossip about."

"Yes, except, it's not really as easy as that."

"I don't see why not. _I_ behave, and none of the servants talk about me."

"But that's because you're the person everyone passes the gossip _to_. Of _course_ they're not going to gossip _about_ you."

She shrugged. "Sucks to be you, I guess."

"Yes, well, rest assured, the servants won't ever have any gossip to share about Miss Farradale and me." Not that he wouldn't enjoy the chance to 'misbehave' with her. But given who her mother was, it would cause him more hassle than it was worth.

"I shouldn't ask her back for a second dinner, then?"

"Thank you, but no. Like I said, she's very nice, but not really my type."

"If Gwenna Freebourn is your type, you might need to lower your expectations," she warned. "There can't be ten women in the whole kingdom as beautiful as she is."

"It's not just about the looks. I already told you that."

"Although, you'd think someone with Gwenna Freebourn's fame and money would have better taste in men."

Barely two minutes. That had to be a new record.

He pulled his feet off the table, grabbed his tie and cumberbund, and headed for his bedroom, carrying his half-finished drink with him. "You can stay here and snark all night if you want," he called out. "I'm going to bed."

"I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow," she called back.

"What breakfast tomorrow?" Was there an early event he'd forgotten about?

"It's Monday, remember? Time for your weekly marital status reminder."

_That_ breakfast. Crap. "You said you weren't going to talk about marriage."

"Right now, I meant. It's back to the usual routine tomorrow."

He slammed the door on her, set his glass on his side table, turned to flop face down on the bed and quietly screamed into the pillow.

Sometimes, he _really_ hated his life.


	18. Chapter 18

**Monday May 4, 2020**

It wasn't until the following morning that Brendal finally had the chance to call up to the King's office.

He expected one of Fenbrand's interfering minions to answer—calls from lowly garage staff almost never went through unchallenged—but to his surprise, this time, it was the King himself who picked up.

"Your Majesty, good morning, how are you today?" Brendal said.

"Brendal, good morning, I'm very well, thank you. And you?"

"Also very well, thank you." Time to get right to the point—he knew how busy the Big Man would be. "I was wondering, sir, if you have ten minutes to spare?"

The King heaved a sigh. "To be honest, not really, no." No great surprise to Brendal there. "I'm supposed to be catching up on my correspondence. I've been ignoring it for weeks, and now I have thirty-two letters to write before Friday."

And that was only the letters he handled himself. Bema knew how many his team of secretaries handled for him. "It doesn't have to be today, sir. Any time in the next week will do." Not that any other upcoming day was likely to be any better.

"Would help if I understood why."

"Easier to just show you, sir." Which wasn't actually true, but he didn't want to ruin what he was sure would be a glorious moment by describing it over the phone.

"Brendal, did someone scratch the paintwork on the Firefoot again?"

"No, sir. Nothing as alarming as that. Something nice. You'll love it, I promise."

Silence for a few moments, then, "I'm on my way. I'll be there in five minutes." The line clicked and went dead.

Brendal put the phone down, stepped out of his office and into the bay. "The King's on the way," he hollered to his team of mechanics. "So, look busy, or make yourselves scarce."

To a man, they made themselves scarce.

"Bloody cowards," Brendal muttered.

True to his word, the King arrived a few minutes later.

"So, what is it you wanted to show me?" he said, his curt tone warning Brendal this better be good, and he wasn't in the mood to waste time.

Brendal didn't need to be told twice. "It's right over here, sir," he said, waving the King towards bay three.

The King followed; as he rounded the corner into the bay, he ground to a halt and his eyes went wide. "Bema, Brendal, is this what I think it is?"

Brendal grinned, mentally making a victory fist. "It certainly is."

"An original?"

"As original as they can be these days."

The look of wonder on the King's face—it was the worst case of automotive love at first sight Brendal had ever seen. He watched as his boss circled the bike, peering into various parts, laying his fingers on the tank with almost reverential awe. "This isn't just a motorcycle, Brendal. This is a goddamn national treasure."

"I thought you might feel that way."

"Okay, but _why_ is there a Shadowfax 500 in my garage?"

"Aye, well. Bit of a long story, that."

That got him a tolerant sigh. "When it's one of yours, Brendal, when is it not?"

"I'll take that as a compliment, sir."

The King's head whipped up in alarm. "Brendal, please tell me you didn't just go out and _buy_ it. I mean, I know I told you last year to keep your eyes open for one, but I have to manage these things."

Except, when it came to his toys, there was only one thing he needed to 'manage'. "You mean, you have to figure out when and how to buy it without Her Royal Highness finding out?"

The King's voice was perfectly calm. "Brendal?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You _do_ remember what I told you last week, about how I'm allowed to have people killed?"

Brendal couldn't help but grin. The King's threats to have people killed were turning into a running joke. Fortunately, one he knew was just his boss's way of letting off steam. "Don't worry, sir. It's not an early birthday present. It's just here to have some work done."

"What kind of work?"

"The electrics, sir. There's a fault somewhere in the harness, the battery keeps draining."

The King snorted. "It's a Shadowfax. Of course it does."

"I'll take a look at it this week. Shouldn't take too long to figure it out."

"Okay, but why is it even here? This isn't a public garage." The King tapped his chest with a thumb. "You're only supposed to work on _my_ bikes."

"Very true, sir. But if I'd sent the owner elsewhere, you wouldn't have had the chance to see it, would you?"

"Oh, so this was all for my benefit, then?"

Time to channel his inner Fenbrand. "Your Majesty knows I live to serve."

"You live to do something, Brendal, but I'm not sure it's serve." The King laid a hand on the bike's seat. "You think the owner would mind if I sat on it?"

He was the King. Legally, he could probably sit on whatever he wanted. But his late royal mother (and Colwenna) had raised him to be respectful of other people's belongings, it seemed. "Why do you think I locked it into the floor stand, sir?"

"Did the owner tell you I could?"

"Not exactly. But I won't tell them if you won't." And from what he'd seen of her so far, the owner wouldn't mind.

The King swung his leg over the bike, pulled his feet up onto the pegs and reached forward to grab the handles.

"What do you think?" Brendal asked, circling around the front.

"Bit more upright than I expected. But the seat's more comfortable than the Firefoot."

"All due respect, sir, but a pointy stick up the arse would be more comfortable than the Firefoot." He'd only sat on the 'foot once, two years ago, for maybe all of five minutes, but the memory still made his testicles retract in horror.

"Won't argue with you there." Carefully, the King swung back off the bike. "You still haven't answered my question."

"Which one, sir?"

"About why the bike's here. Or, rather, how it ended up here."

The tricky part now—how much to tell. Best to keep it simple, but honest. "The owner's a distant cousin of mine. Called me a few days ago, asked me if I could take a look at the harness."

"And when they told you what kind of bike it was, you just couldn't refuse?"

"An original 'fax 500? You bet your arse I couldn't." Brendal shrugged. "That, and I owed her grandfather a favour." A longstanding favour, now fully repaid.

The King froze. "Back up a minute. Did you just say _her_?"

"Aye, sir, that's right."

"The owner's a _woman_?"

Brendal nodded. "And a rather attractive young woman at that. I mean, not Gwenna Freebourn attractive"—as he'd expected, that earned him a murderous, questioning glare—"but still quite easy on the eyes."

A sly grin spread across the King's face. "Brendal, you old dog, are you trying to get your leg over?"

"Only with the Shadowfax, sir. I'm forty-two, and the young lady's in her late twenties. I'm almost old enough to be her father." And he was pretty sure her grandfather would gut him if he so much as laid a finger on her.

"Nobody ever tell you, age is just a number?"

"In my experience, it's only ever old perverts who say that, sir."

The King snickered, then frowned. "You didn't tell her where you work, did you?"

Brendal shook his head. "I thought it best not to mention that for now, sir. All I told her was that I work at a private place on the hill."

"I guess that means she didn't bring the bike here?"

"No, sir. I picked it up at her house." He gestured at the garage wall. "Which, you'll be _very_ interested to know, is just over on the North Slope."

"Why would I be interested to know that?" the King warily asked.

"Because it means she's from a rich family, sir. I couldn't afford a post box on the North Slope, never mind a whole house."

"And?"

"And like I said, she's quite attractive." He didn't mention the nice legs and the lovely tits; the King could find that out for himself.

"Uh huh?"

Bema. Did he have to draw the man a picture? " _And_ she loves motorbikes."

The King heaved a sigh. "Brendal, it might be because you're a Marcher, but you absolutely _suck_ at hinting. For the love of Bema, just spit it out."

Easy enough, but this was the King, so he wanted permission. "Can I make what might be a slightly impertinent suggestion, sir?"

"I would say no, but I know from experience you'll just make it anyway."

Fuck it. That was permission in Brendal's opinion. "With all due respect, sir, maybe it's not me who should be thinking about getting my leg over?"

"Okay, now, I'm _definitely_ having you killed." And the way the King said it, he wasn't joking.

"Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to offend you."

Sighing, the King waved him away. "No, it's fine. Forgive me, I shouldn't have said that."

It was only then Brendal realized how tired His Majesty looked. "Everything alright, sir?" he asked.

"Everything's fine. But I already have about twelve different people trying to arrange my love life for me. Would rather not have you on my case about it as well."

"At least I'm not trying to set you up with a pigeon rescuer, sir."

The King scrunched his face. "You heard about that? _Already_?"

"I did, sir, yes." As always, the King underestimated just how quickly chatter travelled, and how many people were willing to spread it further when it arrived. Especially when the chatter in question was about him and a woman. "Was it as painful as it sounds?"

"It was… interesting, yes."

"Interesting, aye. I'm sure it was." Brendal stepped close to murmur, "No offense, Your Majesty, I'm sure she was a very nice woman, but who the _fuck_ rescues pigeons? Where I come from, the only way we rescue them is by making them into a pie."

"I always prefer to rescue them with buckshot myself," the King murmured back, grinning.

Behind them, one of the Palace's messenger boys appeared. As always, he ignored Brendal completely to aim a respectful nod at the King. "Pardon for interrupting, Your Majesty, but your presence is required upstairs."

A King's work was never done, it seemed. Not for the first time, Brendal realized how nice and simple his own life was. He wasn't rich, or powerful, and he didn't have a train of glamorous women lining up to have sex with him, but at least his life was own. And outside of work, his time was as well. He wouldn't swap lives with the King for all the Firefoots in the world.

Except for the 'women lining up to have sex with him' thing. That part, he could maybe live with. Especially if one of them was Gwenna Freebourn. He would let Gwenna Freebourn ride him until he lost the power of speech and the use of his legs.

The King pointed at the 'fax. "How long will you have her for?"

"Depends on how tricky the work is." And on how busy his actual job kept him. "A week? Ten days maybe?"

"Once you're done, any chance I could take it for a quick spin?"

"I _did_ mention to the owner that I might want a wee shot. She's fine as long as I don't put more than a few hundred on it."

"That's extremely generous of her."

"She's a Marcher, sir." And family, of a kind. "It's just how we are."

"Let me know when it's fixed, okay?" On his way to the stairs, the King called back, "We can put a hundred on her each."


	19. Chapter 19

**Wednesday May 6, 2020**

Darkness fell as the car drove into a tunnel.

Eomer turned away from the window. "Remind me again, what this function we're going to is for?"

"The Edoras Women's Network," Eowyn said. She flicked to the next page of what looked like the printed text for a speech. "It's the lunch to celebrate this year's Forty Under Forty."

"So, I'm having lunch with forty women, then?"

"Of course not, no."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, good. I mean, I _love_ women, don't get me wrong, but forty seems like an awful lot."

"You're having lunch with ninety-eight women."

"Ninety-eight?!"

"The forty on the list, plus everyone on the board, plus some journalists, plus some female volunteers from other, supporting organizations."

"Will there be any other men in the room?"

"A few, but not many." She closed her speech over. "Maybe the odd husband or two. And one of the journalists _might_ be a man, but I wouldn't put any money on it."

"So, a bit of a vagina-fest, then?" Under different circumstances, something he might actually like.

"Don't be crude."

"Sorry."

"If we wanted the room to be full of men, we would go to any other business event. This one is to celebrate talented women. There's no real need to invite any men."

"You invited me." But maybe she didn't think of him as a man.

"As the guest of honour, yes."

"As the human sacrifice, you mean."

Eowyn rolled her eyes. "They're not going to drain your blood, flay off your skin then tear you limb from limb and devour you. It's going to be a perfectly pleasant couple of hours."

"Full of women."

"Full of smart, capable, talented women."

Was it his imagination, or was her smile ever-so-slightly malicious?

"So, a room-full of overachievers. Great," he muttered.

"I thought you liked capable women."

"I do. Very much." Smart and talented as well. "Just not ninety-eight of them at once."

"If it helps, you won't have to talk to all of them. We've divided the function into tables of eight."

"I think I can manage eight."

"Sixteen, actually. Eight for the starter and main course, then we'll take a break for the speeches, then a different eight for dessert and coffee."

"Eight women for dessert. There's an interesting thought," he murmured.

"Is that a sexual euphemism of some kind?"

"Wynna, dearest, you bet your royal _arse_ it is."

Her snort was dismissive. "Even you couldn't have sex with eight women in one sitting."

That didn't mean he wouldn't be willing to try. "Who said we would do it sitting?"

"Have I ever told you, sometimes, you're a degenerate cave troll of a man?"

"Says the woman serving me up as the main event for the entertainment of ninety-eight women."

"Oh, _do_ get over yourself. It's a two-and-a-half hour lunch with some extremely talented women, not a ritual fight to the death in a combat arena."

"Am I at least allowed to know, _which_ extremely talented women?"

She handed him a printed list of names, broken into two blocks. "You'll be pleased to know, I've put you with the cream of the crop. These sixteen women you're about to have lunch with, they're _literally_ the best and brightest the Kingdom has to offer. Doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, journalists, artists, writers, humanitarians. You name it, they've achieved it." Her face lit up. "Oh, and you'll be pleased to know, they're all single, and under thirty. Not just under forty."

Bema, would it kill her to be slightly more subtle? Was she tracking their ovulation cycles as well? "Should I come back with a ranked list?" he asked. He scanned the names, but he didn't recognize any of them. "Ordered by who's got the best resumé and the prettiest smile?"

"Now, you're just being childish."

"Okay, then what are your expectations for this? What is it you want me to do?"

"Since it's you, my expectations are _shockingly_ low. All I want you to do is be an agreeable guest of honour. Be charming, attentive and polite, listen when the women speak, tell some funny jokes, but clean jokes please, no double entendres or risqué remarks, and ask some interesting questions. Leave them with the impression that even if you're not the most intelligent man in the world, you at least know how to put your underwear on in the morning."

"If it turns out well, one of them could find out for sure."

She made a pained face. "Just not tonight, please. And for the love of Bema, not back at the Palace. If you absolutely _must_ have one of them for dessert, do it where and when I can't see. And try to at least have dinner with her first. Don't just bash her over the head with a sword and drag her into a stable to have your sordid way with her. Remember, I know all these women. So, be chivalrous, _please_."

"I'm always chivalrous." And by that, he meant he always made sure any woman he took to his bed left it so thoroughly and utterly sated she couldn't use her legs for several hours after.

The car slowed to pull in at a curb. He peered out the window—as he'd expected, a crowd of people were waiting to greet them. He blinked as a series of professional cameras flashed. The press were covering the function, then.

Eomer waited for Fastmer to open his door, which told him the situation was good from a security point of view, then climbed out and went around to open his sister's door for her. He held out a hand for her to grab while she swung out of the car to stand up. "One more unto the breach, dear friends," he muttered as they walked towards the receiving cluster, which was quickly settling into a line. It always amazed him how people did that—instant adherence to some invisible pecking order.

"We're going to lunch, not to war," Eowyn muttered back. "No need to stiffen the sinews just yet."

"The only stiff thing I need right now is a drink."

"We'll water you soon. Five minutes, I promise."

Sure enough, five minutes later, the meeting and greeting rituals were done, and the two of them were being escorted to an elegant banquet room on the hotel's mezzanine level. As always, crowds of people stopped to watch and point as they passed, a brave few even taking photos. Eomer smiled and nodded and smiled some more, glad for the reassuring presence of Fastmer and Dunthel up front, and Nedris, Vonnal and Godhild behind them.

At the door to the banquet room, Eowyn said, "Remember, charming, attentive, polite. You can do that, can't you?"

Eomer smoothed down his tie. "I'm the King of Rohan, Wynna. I can do that in my sleep."

They strode through the doors; ninety-eight pairs of educated, inquisitive eyes turned towards them. And that he could see, not a single pair of them was male. Except for some of the uniformed servers lining the wall, he was _literally_ the only man in the room.

He wasn't the human sacrifice. He wasn't even the main event in the ritual combat arena. He was the goddamn suckling pig at a woman-only Harvest party. All he needed was for someone to ram an iron spit up his arse, gently turn him over a fire, stick an apple in his mouth and serve him on a fucking platter.

Elfhelm was going to laugh himself silly.

He collapsed on his couch, half-sighing, half-groaning. He pulled off his tie, tossed it onto the table and leaned his head back, pressing his palms into his eyes.

He never, _ever_ wanted to do that again. He would get married, _right_ now, to the first half-suitable woman he met, just to have a wife he could send to next year's lunch in his place. Maybe that was Eowyn's plan. Maybe she'd given up on the gentle persuasion. Maybe now, she was trying to frighten him into marriage instead.

He was going to have a bath and some wine. Or a bath of wine. He wasn't sure—whatever worked best.

A warning knock on the sitting room door announced Colwenna's arrival. "How was the Women's Network event?" she asked.

"Fine."

She gathered his tie and disappeared with it into his closet. "Just fine? That doesn't sound good."

"Eowyn said it was a huge success. But I think now, I understand how the roasting pig at a Harvest festival feels."

"And here, I thought you would jump at the chance to spend the day surrounded by women."

He decided to let that one slide. "They were all really interesting people. It's just…" Sighing, he leaned his head back again.

"Too many of them in too small a space?"

" _And_ in too short a time. I swear, I'd just gotten the hang of the first lot when they made us take a break for the speeches, then, when I sat down again, it was a whole new group I had to contend with." And he'd never been the best with names. Faces, yes. Names, no. He usually had someone on hand to remember names for him.

"They've never done _that_ before," Colwenna said, reappearing.

"No?"

"Your sister's taken me for the last three years, we've always stayed in the same seat for the whole lunch."

Which meant only one thing. "Eowyn stitched me up, didn't she?"

Colwenna smiled. "That pig analogy you used might not be too far off the mark."

"Colwenna, I swear, they were absolutely _voracious_. I mean, they were polite, respectful, smart, told some really amazing stories, and they're all doing fantastic work in their fields, but not a shrinking bloody violet among them."

"I don't think you make the Forty Under Forty list by being the shy, retiring type, sir."

"Wouldn't have been so bad if at least one of them had been into bikes." A few of them had been into cars, but as any true biker knew, four wheels and two wheels weren't the same.

"You might have to look elsewhere for that," Colwenna said.

Now, if he could just figure out where…


	20. Chapter 20

**Friday May 8, 2020**

"Well, well, well," Imrahil drawled, closing his paper to set it aside. "Look who finally decided she's had enough vacation time?" He still didn't understand why she'd even gone on vacation at all. She wasn't married, didn't have any children to care for or a husband's household to run, didn't work or have a job in the traditional sense. What in Oromë's name did she even need to take a vacation _from_? He wouldn't ask—her answer would be her credit card bill and a breezy reminder that being his daughter was her full-time profession.

Smiling, Lothiriel crossed the terrace and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Lovely to see you, too, papa."

He gestured for her to take a chair. "So, how was Fornost, then?"

"It was nice."

"Nice?" Imrahil repeated. "Is that the best you can say? One of the oldest cities in Eriador, and it was just _nice_?"

Lothiriel wrinkled her nose. "Papa, it was _awfully_ cold."

Imrahil couldn't help but laugh. His sweet, innocent summer girl. "Sweetling, it's more than a thousand miles north of here. Of _course_ it would be cold. What on earth were you expecting?"

"I knew it wouldn't be as warm as here. But I wasn't expecting it to be quite that cold." She leaned over the table. "Papa, it was _snowing_ when we landed. I almost cried. How can it snow in the middle of April?"

"You're a true daughter of Belfalas, my love. Our mild winters have utterly spoiled you." And, if he was being honest, so had he.

"Weather or not, I'm glad I went," she said. "I loved the ruins in the old city. And the art museums were amazing."

"So, you enjoyed yourself, then?"

"Very much, yes."

"But you might not be rushing back anytime soon."

"Not in the middle of April, I won't. If I ever go back, I'll go in August. _And_ I'll take my warm coat with me."

One of the palace's many servants appeared. "Could I bring you some refreshments, Your Highness?" she said to Lothiriel.

"Yes, please, Gwendis," Lothiriel said. "I'll have some coffee, black, no sugar, and a breakfast pastry if they're ready. Oh, and some cubed melon as well. But the honey melon. Not the summer melon. With some plain yoghurt on the side. Thank you."

"Of course, Your Highness." Gwendis bobbed a curtsy and strode away.

"So, what's been happening while I was gone?" Lothiriel asked. "Any interesting news or gossip to catch up on?"

"Nothing much in Gondor." Was this the right time to raise the Eomer issue? She'd only just returned from her trip—maybe he should put it off, discuss it with her next week instead. But he had to be back in Minas Tirith next week, and it was only the two of them in the house this morning—it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. "But there _is_ some interesting gossip from Rohan."

"I hear they're having another election," she said, as if an election was the strangest of things. But in election-free Gondor, it more or less was.

"They are indeed. But this isn't about politics. This is about the King."

She almost managed not to react, but the slight tightening around her eyes betrayed her. "Oh?"

"There's a bit of a debate raging in the Rohanese press about the fact King Eomer isn't married yet." He paused to finish his coffee. "Apparently, as much as they like him, and as much as they approve of the job he's doing, his subjects feel it's time he settled down and did the right thing."

"They have a point. He _is_ the King."

Elphir wasn't his only know-it-all child, it seemed. "Do you know, that's exactly what your brother said?"

"I can't believe he's still not married. He's been on the throne for what, seven years now?"

"Almost eight, I think. When he was here, you'd just turned twenty-one, remember?" And her Fornost trip had been an early twenty-ninth birthday present.

She dropped her eyes to stare at her hands. "Papa?"

"Yes, sweetling?"

"You don't think it's because of what I said to him, do you?" she quietly asked.

"I wouldn't think so," he said. "A King can't marry just any woman, so I'm sure there's been more to it than that."

"I hope so." She raised her eyes, forcing a smile. "I know I've told you this before, but I'm not proud of what I said. Or, of how I said it. I know I hurt him. I would hate to think I hurt him so badly he's decided he would rather stay single than risk proposing to someone again."

"From what I've read in the Rohanese press, he's had a few other opportunities, it's just that none of them have ever worked out."

Lothiriel huffed. "I know how _that_ feels. Can't believe I'm the age I am and I'm still not married yet, either."

"You're twenty-nine, sweetling. Hardly a shrivelled old maid."

She heaved a frustrated sigh. "I just…"

"What, my love?"

"I just wish I could go back in time, have that conversation all over again, but this time, make a different choice."

He couldn't have set this up more perfectly if he'd tried; sometimes, the universe truly _did_ deliver. "If you _could_ do it all over again, would you say 'yes' this time?" Imrahil asked.

"I think I would tell him I wanted us to get to know each other first. That was part of the problem, I think. We'd only met a few days before. The speed of the whole thing caught me off guard."

"It was a _little_ impulsive, yes." Something Eomer was infamous for. Now, just as much as then, it seemed.

"But with the kindest of intentions behind it."

"Sweetling?"

"Yes?"

"What if I told you, there might be a way you _could_ do it all over again?"

Lothiriel laughed. "Papa, that's a lovely idea, but unless you invented a time machine while I was away on vacation, I honestly don't see how."

"No time machine, sorry. I can't take you back to eight years ago. What's done is done."

"And can't be undone."

"It can't be _undone_ , no. But if we approach it properly, we might be able to redo it. Give you a second chance, I mean."

"With _Eomer_?"

"Yes."

"But, papa, why on earth would we even want to?"

"Because, sweetling, not a single one of the things that led Eomer to ask you to marry him in the first place has changed. He's still a King. He still needs to find a wife and produce a legitimate heir." Smiling softly, he reached out to tenderly cup her cheek with his hand. "And the last time I looked, you're still the treasured, beautiful only daughter of one of Gondor's richest and most powerful houses."

Smiling, she took his hand to kiss it. "Papa, you always say the nicest things."

"Because they're _true_ , sweetling."

"You're not seriously suggesting we contact the Rohanese Court to re-open marriage discussions?"

"We'd need to do it carefully, but if we could, then, yes, why not?"

"Are you forgetting the part where I didn't turn Eomer down so much as throw his proposal back in his face? In front of a room-full of people?"

" _Eight_ people, sweetling." All of whom had been their close kin. "That hardly counts as a room-full."

"But it was still humiliating enough that Eomer went back to the Consulate and packed up and left."

"I'm willing to admit, it wasn't your finest hour."

She made a pained face. "Finest, kindest, maturest, politest…"

"But here's something to consider."

"What's that?"

"If you could tell Eomer what you just told me, that you very much regret what you did, and what you said, and where and how you said it, would you?"

Brows stricken, she reached out to lay her hand over his. "Oh, papa, of _course_ I would. There's not a moment in my life I regret quite as much as that dinner. I can't do it over again, and I can't make it so it never happened, but I _could_ apologize for being such a bitch."

"You weren't a bitch, sweetling."

She shook her head firmly. "No, papa, I was. A stuck up, arrogant, selfish bitch who thought she was too good for a King. A _King_. No woman with an ounce of common sense and compassion would have even _thought_ the words I said, much less actually said them."

"We should arrange the opportunity, then. For you to apologize to Eomer, that is."

"Good luck with _that_ ," she muttered. "He won't ever come to Dol Amroth again, and I'm pretty sure the Rohanese Border Service will have my name on some kind of list. And even if I could put myself in the same place as him, his staff would never let me anywhere near him."

Except if Eomer was holding a fancy, formal event, and she was there to represent the House of Dol Amroth? Eomer couldn't refuse to meet her then, unless he wanted a diplomatic spat on his hands. But probably best to keep that part of the plan to himself for now—no point in troubling her with the details just yet. "You worry about what you want to do. Let me worry about how we would do it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Papa, what in Eru's name are you plotting?"

"I'm not plotting anything," he lied. "But an opportunity has come up, and I think it would be foolish of us not to take it."

"For me to apologize to Eomer, you mean?"

"For you to apologize to Eomer, to persuade him to trust you again, to make him realize what a kind, beautiful, generous young woman you've become. To show him the instincts that led him to you eight years ago were right, that you _would_ make a wonderful wife, and an even more wonderful Queen."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"As Cirion was when he summoned Eorl."

She sat back, sighing. "I don't know, papa. There's some logic in what you're saying, but it seems like a huge stretch to me."

She always had been too good at picking an argument apart. "Turn it around, then. Put yourself in his shoes. If Eomer had said to you what you said to him, and he came back to apologize now, and he asked you to give him a second chance, what would _you_ do?"

She paused to think. "I honestly don't know. I would accept the apology, I think, as long as I could see it was heartfelt and honest, but for anything more, I would have to get to know him better first. I would have to know I could _really_ trust him."

"And if you decided you couldn't? Trust him, that is?"

"I would thank him for the apology, shake hands and wish him the best."

"And you don't want that for yourself?" he said, turning the argument on its axis again.

She frowned. "Not sure I follow."

"Let's say the idea of resurrecting the marriage proposal is a lost cause, would you not at least want to put what happened behind you, to apologize, have him forgive you, and peacefully go your separate ways?"

"I would, papa. Very much, yes." In the softest voice he'd ever heard her use, she added, "More than anything else in the world."

The pieces were slotting together. "So, why don't we take this opportunity, get the two of you in a private room together? Cover the apology part, see what happens from there?"

"What if he won't accept my apology? What if he turns his back on me and orders his people to throw me out?"

Imrahil bristled at the mere thought. _Nobody_ , not even a King, would _ever_ treat his beloved daughter that way. "Then, he's not worth your apology in the first place, my love."

Slowly, she took a deep breath. "It's making my heart race just thinking about it."

"Because you know it's what you should do."

"Not just what I _should_ do. What I _need_ to do as well. The business with Eomer has been hanging over me for the last eight years. I need to face it, _we_ need to face it, and put it behind us, once and for all."

"So, you'll give my suggestion some thought?"

"When do you need to know for sure?"

"No rush. Sometime in the next couple of weeks." They'd only been allocated four seats for the banquet, for him and his wife and Elphir and his, but if she decided she wanted to join them, he was quite sure he could persuade the relevant people in Rohan to allocate him a fifth. He _was_ the highest-ranking of Gondor's Princes, second in precedence only to the King. A fifth seat wasn't really _too_ much to ask.

"Papa?"

"Yes, sweetling?"

"By any chance, does this have anything to do with the oath banquet thing in August?" she said.

By Eru, she was as sharp as her equally lovely mother. "It might do, yes."

Gwendis appeared, carrying Lothiriel's breakfast on a small tray.

"Take some time to think about it," he said. "When you make your decision, let me know. And if you decide it's something you'd rather _not_ do, that's entirely fine as well."

"I will. I promise."

Imrahil reached for the rook.

Elphir grimaced. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Quiet, boy," Imrahil said. He slid the rook across the board to claim Elphir's abandoned knight.

Elphir sat back, frowning.

"You didn't see that coming, did you?" Sometimes, a weathered old dog could still teach an impish, know-it-all pup some new tricks.

A knock on the door spared him from Elphir's response. "Come in," Imrahil called out.

Lothiriel stepped through the door. "Am I interrupting?" she said.

"Only your brother's utter destruction."

"Papa, I thought about what you told me this morning."

"And?"

"And, my answer is 'yes'. This has been stewing for long enough. It's high time I sorted it out."

A strange feeling filled Imrahil's chest—part pride, part fear, part hope, part joy. "Thank you, sweetling. I give you my word, something good will come of it." Even if that 'something good' was only an agreement to put past wrongs and pains behind them.

"I hope so."

He shooed her out. "Go keep your mother company. Let me finish teaching your brother a well-earned lesson. We'll talk more about this next week."

Once she was gone, Elphir said, "What on _earth_ was all that about?"

"Plans, Elphir. Plans are afoot."

"Plans for what?"

"That depends. If the plan goes poorly, I should at least relieve your sister of a burden she's been carrying for the last eight years." And that, in hindsight, he should have taken steps to deal with long before now.

"And if it goes well?"

"If it goes well, I'll make your sister a Queen."

"Rohan?" Elphir guessed.

Imrahil nodded. "You object?"

"Not at all. But it won't be easy."

Imrahil thought of Aragorn, and the years it had taken him to win the consent of Queen Arwen's father. "When it's a King's marriage, Elphir, it never is."


	21. Chapter 21

**Sunday May 10, 2020**

Elfhelm of Elgoll was many things.

The heir to the kingdom's wealthiest earldom. A two-time nominee for _Edoras_ magazine's 'Best Dressed' award. An amazing cook. An inveterate gossip. A horrifyingly terrible driver. And, on the matter of racquetball, the lowest, meanest, dirtiest cheat Eomer had _ever_ had the pleasure to play.

It was scandalous, really, how far his best friend was willing to go, just to score a few measly points. In the last twenty minutes, Elfhelm had tripped him up, body-slammed him into a wall, punched him viciously in the kidneys, yanked him away from a shot by the hair and tried to hit him in the face with a racquet.

For the watchers in the gallery, the physical beating their King was taking seemed to be a cause for concern. From time to time, usually when Elfhelm pulled an especially dirty manoeuvre, Eomer would hear a chorus of horrified gasps. If he could take the time to look up, he would no doubt see a gallery-full of stricken expressions and mouths covered with manicured hands. And it was always manicured hands, because it was always women doing the gasping. In all the years he'd been coming here, the gallery had only ever been full of women.

Wealthy, beautiful, _willing_ women.

But even wealthy, beautiful, willing women were a security hazard, it seemed. This might be The Edoras Club—the most expensive, most exclusive private health club in the whole country—but Fastmer still didn't trust anyone as far as he could throw them. Today, he'd stationed Nedris and Elfwina upstairs, knowing his female guards could deal with risks from bolshy women far more effectively than their male colleagues, while Fastmer himself had taken up sentry duty downstairs at the door that led into the court. Eomer was quite sure Fastmer _loathed_ how Elfhelm played, and that only his own express command on the matter was stopping the seasoned head guard from charging into the court to break every bone in the cheating Lord's body.

But this was sport. And sport was war without the guns. And war wasn't supposed to be kind. It was supposed to be hard and ugly and mean. Eomer _wanted_ Elfhelm to try to win, whatever the cost, whatever the method. He was perfectly happy for Elfhelm to cheat, since he was more than capable of cheating just as badly right back. In the last twenty minutes, he'd punched, pushed, poked an eye, given a wedgie, stamped on toes and smacked the curved head of his racquet right into Elfhelm's family jewels.

How many of the shocked gasps from upstairs were for how he was conducting himself, instead of concern for his royal person?

Not that he cared. Today, he wasn't here for the women, no matter how willing and eager they were. Today, he was here to beat his best friend into the ground and crow over his ruined, broken, bleeding body.

That had been the plan, at least. But like many of his plans these days, it wasn't working out quite the way he'd imagined.

The rubber ball bounced towards him. Eomer drew his arm back, ready to hit the ball at the wall with every last ounce of energy he could muster. Nothing happened; his arm didn't move. He looked round to find a grinning Elfhelm holding the head of his racquet. Elfhelm yanked, pulling Eomer off balance. The ball bounced again; Eomer's chance (and the game) was lost. After almost an hour, the heir to Elgoll had finally won. Elfhelm thrust his arms in the air, proclaiming victory to the watching women like Eorl at the Field of Celebrant.

Eomer collapsed on the floor with a groan, beaten, sweating, panting, exhausted. When he'd caught his breath, he smiled up at his best friend, standing over him with an unbearably smug grin on his face. "You are the meanest, dirtiest, lying bastard I have _ever_ played," he said.

"Thank you, sir. That means a lot, coming from you. I know how many dirty, lying bastards you've met."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment, Elf."

"But I'll happily take it as one." Breathing heavily, Elfhelm grinned again. "Your Majesty _did_ tell me, at the start of the game, I was free to use any strategy I could think of."

"That wasn't a strategy. That was just an hour of you being a vicious, horsefucking piece of shit."

Elfhelm tutted. " _Language_ , sir. What _would_ the lovely ladies of The Rohan Club think?" He held out a hand, offering to pull Eomer up.

Eomer took the hand, using it to lever himself off the ground. "Between you and me, Elf, the lovely ladies of The Rohan Club can suck my royal balls for me," he murmured.

"I'm quite sure a few of them would be more than happy to oblige."

Eomer knew at least two of them would…

He leaned over to grab the ball, wincing as something in his knee twinged. "I'm getting too old for this game. I think we need to start playing something calmer instead. Badminton. Or maybe tennis."

"Yes, except, I can't cheat at badminton or tennis," Elfhelm pointed out.

"Sure you can."

"Just not in such an enjoyable way."

"You mean, not in a way that lets you beat me into the ground."

Elfhelm huffed. "That's a _shocking_ accusation, sir."

"You know, Elf, if this is how you treat all the men in your life, it's no wonder you're so painfully single."

"Not all of them, no. Just the straight ones. Not the men I'm trying to seduce."

Eomer snickered. "You beat them into the ground in a far more interesting way, right?"

"Would you believe I'm even better at that than I am at this?"

Given the ear-curling stories he'd heard, yes, he absolutely would. Eomer slapped Elfhelm on the shoulder. "Good game. Let's go wash up. Then you can buy me lunch upstairs."

"I think you meant, then _you_ can buy _me_ lunch."

"That's what I said. You buy me lunch. Unless I misheard you?"

"You're such an _arse_."

"But I'm an arse who lets you beat me at racquetball."

Elfhelm rolled his eyes. " _Lets_ you. Of _course_."

Twenty minutes later, they were showered and changed and making their way up the two flights of stairs to the restaurant on the top floor. Halfway through the second flight, Eomer was wishing they'd taken the elevator instead. His knee twinged again. He was _definitely_ getting too old for this crap. If he asked them nicely, maybe his guards would offer to carry him the rest of the way? He didn't really weigh that much, and Nedris and Elfwina were both sturdy girls. They could make a simple four-handed seat, carry him up between them, right? Although, knowing his luck, Fastmer would get involved, haul his sorry arse up the stairs in a fireman's carry instead.

Elfhelm paused two steps ahead. "Only eight more to go, Your Majesty. Surely even your feeble royal legs can manage that?"

"New rule. From now on, we take the elevator when we're done."

Fastmer led them into the restaurant, heading for the row of reserved private rooms in the back. As they walked, guests and staff pulled off to the side to let their group go by, smiling and nodding as they passed. The restaurant was almost full, and _everyone_ was watching them. Eomer understood why—he was the King, after all—but even after eight years, he still found the attention he drew a little unnerving. He was just glad Fastmer insisted on them dining in one of the rooms with solid walls instead of one where the walls were glass. His life was enough of a goldfish bowl already.

As always, the club owner was waiting for them at the room door, dressed in an immaculate three piece suit Eomer was sure he'd bought for the occasion. "Your Majesty, My Lord, good morning," he said, giving an actual, proper bow—something people didn't really do anymore. "Did you enjoy your racquetball game?"

" _I_ did," Elfhelm said. "But _I_ won. His Majesty probably hated every minute of it."

Elfhelm, bless him. "I did enjoy it, thank you, yes," Eomer added.

"So glad to hear it." The owner waved them into the room. "The usual arrangement, sirs. Everything should be in order." He gestured to an older, calm-looking man standing in the far corner. "Heredred will be your server today." Heredred nodded a brief 'hello'.

"Thank you."

They waited as Fastmer checked the room for bugs and bombs, then seats were claimed, menus were scanned, drinks and two courses of food were ordered, all while Fastmer stood like a watchful statue outside the door. Eomer couldn't see Nedris and Elfwina, but it wasn't as if he needed three guards right now, so Fastmer might have sent them to wait outside until they were ready to leave.

Heredred arrived with the drinks—a Hornburg Red for Elfhelm and an Aldburg Black for him.

"Can I bring you anything else, sirs?" Heredred asked.

"We're good for now, thank you, Heredred." Eomer nodded at the button on the wall. "We'll call if anything comes up."

"Of course, Your Majesty." With another nod, Heredred withdrew.

"Cheers," said Eomer, raising his bottle.

Elfhelm tapped the bottles together. "Here's to using dirty tricks to get what you want."

"But only in sport."

"And surely in politics as well?"

That made Eomer think. Could he use dirty tricks to deal with his Thenwis problem? _Should_ he? She was only twenty, and so far, not really doing anything wrong. And he had to remember who she might be getting help from. He himself was reasonably good at playing dirty when he had to (and Eowyn was even better), but the Earl of Camelor was a natural at it. The man didn't know how to play any other way.

Eomer put the thought aside for now. There was no pressing need—Thenwis couldn't do anything with her petition for at least another four weeks.

"Speaking of people using dirty tricks, did you hear about Thelden Camelor's latest problems?" Elfhelm said.

If it wasn't one brother, it was the other. "Only the basics. He's being investigated, isn't he?"

"For securities fraud, of all things. He's apparently been engaging in something called Pump and Dump. No idea what that is, of course. I'm going to assume it's not a sex thing. Because it sounds like a sex thing."

In some part of the world, it probably was. "It's when you artificially inflate the price of a stock you own so you can sell it at a higher price than you bought it at."

"Well, aren't we the informed one today?"

"Even I have my useful moments."

"Is it an easy thing to do? This Pump and Dump business, I mean?"

"No idea. But it'll be like any other crime. It's not necessarily committing it that's the difficult part, it's the getting away with it when you're done. You need to pretty smart to commit financial fraud and keep the securities regulator at bay."

Elfhelm snickered. "And Bema knows we never put the words 'smart' and 'Thelden Camelor' in the same sentence."

"Hmm, no, he's not the fizziest bottle in the fridge, is he?"

"His older brother got all the brains. _And_ his older sister. She's _scary_ smart. The supply ran out by the time they got to Thelden."

"I would say at least he got all the looks, but that would be a terrible lie."

"Now, now, Your Majesty. We can't all be as _devastatingly_ handsome as you." Elfhelm took a sip of his drink. "Do you think the broken nose makes him look better, or worse?"

The nose Solwen Hamelmark had broken. "Doesn't matter. Thelden's type of ugly goes right to the bone." Eomer grabbed his napkin to shake it out. "But I don't want to talk about the Camelor brothers today. Let's talk about something more pleasant instead."

"Are you going to the Cup Final next week?"

"I am, yes." One of the few royal duties he truly enjoyed. "I'm presenting the trophy at the end." Hopefully, to Edoras United.

"You think we'll win?"

"Hard to say. The squad's solid, but City have a great team as well. It'll be a close match."

"As long as it doesn't end with a penalty shootout this year."

Like last year's utter debacle. "If it comes to that, I might invoke the Privilege of the Crown, run onto the pitch, order them all to keep playing." Backed up with a death threat, of course. Which made him think—if he had to execute a whole football team, what would be the most fitting method?

"Will you wear your United shirt?"

Eomer shook his head. "Not allowed. I'm supposed to be neutral, remember?"

"In politics, yes. But this is football we're talking about. You should be allowed to cheer for whoever you want."

"Except, I'm the King of Tronvene as well, remember?"

Elfhelm sneered. "Tronvene. Fuck those fucking fuckers."

"You'll forgive me if I don't ever repeat that opinion." Not in public, at least.

"Going on your own, I assume?"

Eomer nodded as he sipped on his beer. "It's an official engagement, so I can't take just anyone with me." If he could, he would take his best friend—the two of them could quietly rage at Tronvene together—but such was the way of the world. "I did ask Eowyn to join me, but you know how she feels about football. Think she'd rather have all her teeth pulled out without anaesthetic than have to watch the Cup Final."

"She's well, I assume?"

"Still terrorizing everyone in a ten mile radius, yes." Which, unfortunately, usually included him.

"Any personal updates you want to share?"

Eomer shrugged. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On what you mean by 'personal updates' for one."

"I mean, what delicious conquests have you made since we last spoke." Elfhelm wrinkled his nose. "What the hell else would I mean?"

"Sorry. It's just, I have a lot of people bugging me about my marital status right now." Eowyn, Camelor, Keveleok, Hereoch, the Edoras Times, Colwenna. Even Brendal had made a few comments. "Was thinking you were about to join in."

"I think I'm actually hurt," Elfhelm said in a wounded tone.

"By what?"

"By that remark."

"Why?"

"In all the years I've been your best friend, when I have ever bugged you about your marital status?"

Eomer actually had an answer for that. "Didn't you once tell me you thought I should marry your sister?"

"When we were _twelve_. And she was six. And when you told her you didn't want to, she pitched a fit and threw her Barbie doll at you."

The first woman to ever throw something at him. But probably not the last. And at least a Barbie doll wasn't sharp. "You're right. You've never bugged me about it." They'd discussed it, yes, but never with any judgement attached.

"So, why on earth would you ever think I'm going to start now?"

"Sorry. Just feeling a little more defensive than usual. And to answer your question, only one."

"One?" Elfhelm repeated, brows rising.

Eomer swigged on his beer. And that one had been almost a month ago—something he was becoming _intensely_ aware of. There was only so much a man could do to 'ease' his problems himself. "Long story. Don't ask."

"And this one conquest, was she anyone I would know?"

"Not sure," Eomer said, trying to keep his face straight. "Have you ever heard of this up-and-coming actress called Gwenna Freebourn?"

Elfhelm's eyes went wide. "You did the dirty with Gwenna Freebourn?"

"I did indeed. In a variety of extremely stimulating positions."

"You naughty, naughty boy."

"Elf, you have _no_ idea." Just thinking back on what he and Gwenna had done was making him regret his 'no flings' promise. He still had Gwenna's number. Surely he could arrange something away from the Palace, where Eowyn's eyes couldn't see?

"I'm impressed. I mean, she's not my type—"

"By which you mean, she's not in possession of a penis, of course."

"But even I can see she's what people who are into that would consider extremely attractive."

Eomer leaned across the table to murmur, "Got a mouth on her that can wake the dead."

"Now, that _is_ my type. In possession of a penis or not."

"I'll give you her number, if you think you might want to branch out, try something new."

"Better if I didn't, I think. After you, I'd probably be a crushing disappointment."

"I _am_ the King. I think, legally, sex with me is _literally_ as good as it gets."

Elfhelm rolled his eyes. "Are you planning to see her again?"

"Unlikely," Eomer said. "Would like to, but I should probably keep it as a one-time deal."

"Where on earth did you even meet her?"

"At the RAFTAs. They put her next to me at the dinner."

Elfhelm frowned. "Okay, but that was almost a month ago."

"We played here that morning, yes."

"And nothing since?"

"Nope."

"Bema save us. No wonder you're so bloody tetchy."

"I'm not tetchy," Eomer said tetchily. "I've just got a lot on my mind right now." The Thenwis thing was on hold for a few weeks, but that didn't mean it had gone away completely.

"Would you like me to set you up with someone?"

"Elf, all the people you sleep with are guys. Who the fuck would you set me up with?"

"I know _some_ women. I could at least try."

"I appreciate the offer, but no, I don't need you to set me up with someone." He held up a hand as Elfhelm started to argue. "And it's not because I don't want to. It's because I promised Eowyn I wouldn't."

"You promised your sister you wouldn't have sex?"

When he said it like that, it sounded depressing. "More or less, yes."

"What the _bloody_ hell did you go and do that for?"

"Because she wants me to get married. And she says I can't focus on getting married while I'm having sex with a whole bunch of women. It was half to get her off my back, half because I thought it was actually the right thing to do."

"But now you're bitterly regretting your generous moment?"

"Let's just say, there's only so many ways a man can entertain himself before he really needs someone else to do it for him."

"To be fair, though, you sort of do."

"I _definitely_ do. It's always better when someone else does it for me."

"Not that. Get married, I mean."

"I thought you said you would never bug me about my marital status?"

"I'm not bugging. I'm just observing. You're the King. And kings are supposed to get married. Oh, and apparently make babies as well," Elfhelm added, as if making babies was some kind of strange hobby. "Don't forget that part."

"I won't. I just need some time to figure it out."

Elfhelm snickered into his beer. "Knowing how your lovely sister thinks, I'm just surprised she hasn't started rounding up suitable candidates for you."

"What makes you think she hasn't?"

Elfhelm winced.

"Yes, that's pretty much how I feel about it as well," Eomer said drily. He knew Eowyn meant well, but her enthusiasm for her new 'project' was a little unnerving. He was half-expecting her to hold some kind of pageant at the Palace, have him sit on the throne in the Golden Hall while a line of beautiful women paraded past him one-by-one, each one pausing just long enough to tell him her measurements and what her idea of a perfect date was.

"I would offer to help, but none of the single women I hang out with are even regular marriage material, much less royal marriage material," Elfhelm said.

"And I'm probably not their type."

"By which you mean, you _are_ in possession of a penis? There is that tiny problem, yes."

"My penis is _not_ tiny."

Elfhelm bowed his head. "Apologies, Your Majesty. A poor choice of words on my part. Of _course_ it isn't."

"And I'm not sure I'm actually in possession of it anymore. Think it's sitting in a jar of embalming fluid on my sister's shelf."

"I'm sure some lovely young lady will be along to liberate it soon."

"Like Thenwis Colafell, you mean?"

"Yes, I heard about Hereoch's suggestion. And to be fair, she gets her looks from the Colafells instead of the Eorls, so she's actually quite attractive."

"Not as attractive as Gwenna Freebourn."

"Yes, but who is?"

"She's also my cousin, Elfhelm. And _twenty_. What the fuck would I even have in common with her?"

"You mean, apart from your grandparents?"

"Funny."

"While we're on the subject of Thenwis," Elfhelm said, brows furrowing slightly.

The humorous mood fall away—this was something serious now. "What about her?"

"If I tell you something interesting, will you promise not to share it with another soul?"

"If it's something that impacts the Crown, I _might_ have to share it with Eowyn." And Fastmer and Algrin as well, if it could be viewed as a security matter.

"I'm okay with that." Elfhelm checked behind him, making sure the room to the door was closed. "Your cousin, Thenwis, did you know, she had lunch with your grandmother last week?"

"Steelsheen?"

"The old Queen, yes."

He would definitely have to tell Eowyn this. "And you're only just telling me now?" Eomer said, ever-so-slightly exasperated. "Elf, you do realize, I have this thing called a phone? You don't always have to wait to tell me things in person?"

"In my defense, the person I got the information from only told me on Friday night."

"Am I allowed to ask who that person was?"

"An old friend of mine. He's on the staff at the Colafell house."

"This old friend of yours. Is he just someone you happen to know, or does he keep an eye on things for you?"

Elfhelm turned his hand back and forth. "A bit of both. I mostly just know him, but he has excellent eyesight. And excellent hearing as well."

"You trust him?"

"The things we've done in bed, I should bloody well hope so."

"Eyes and ears in the Colafell house. I'm impressed, Elf. Even Eowyn hasn't managed that."

Elfhelm dipped his head. "I may not be a man of many talents, Your Majesty, but I do have some uses."

"Your friend tell you anything else?"

"Just that the lunch happened. He was a little bit starstruck, I think. He's never seen a Queen before."

That didn't make sense. "Okay, sorry, you're telling me your friend _saw_ my grandmother?"

"At the Colafell house, yes."

Eomer sat bolt upright. "My grandmother went to Thenwis? Thenwis didn't go to her?"

Elfhelm nodded. "She apparently turned up at noon, had lunch with Thenwis in private, left at two on the nose."

Eomer cursed under his breath.

"Why does that matter?" Elfhelm asked.

"Because my grandmother is the _Steelsheen_ , Elf. She doesn't go to anyone for anything. Not even me, and I'm the King. If I want to talk to her, I have to haul my arse down to Aldburg instead, sit in her bloody waiting room while she decides if she'll deign to receive me." Which was half the reason he never went—he didn't have the time, energy or inclination to play his grandmother's stupid 'who's more important' games. He respected her age and her position, and the role she'd played during King Thengel's reign, but at the end of the day, _he_ was the reigning monarch, not her.

"She _is_ a hundred and four."

"So, why the hell is she going to the trouble of travelling all the way in to Edoras? And to see Thenwis, of all people? She never talks to the Colafells. She didn't even go to Thendred's funeral, for Bema's sake."

Elfhelm shrugged. "Thenwis just turned twenty a while ago. Maybe it was a late birthday lunch."

Eomer's stomach started to churn. "It's not that. It's something else. Something worse." He should have known, it was never going to be this simple.

"My friend at the house said her departure was rather abrupt, and that Thenwis was furious after, took her mother an hour to calm her down. He got the impression the lunch didn't end the way the Queen wanted."

"Definitely not a birthday lunch, then. If it didn't end the way Morwen wanted, it's because she went there to ask for something, and didn't bloody well get it." And for all the trouble she might be causing for him right now, part of him wanted to cheer Thenwis on. He knew from personal experience how much resolve it took to stand up to the high and mighty Steelsheen's demands.

"Like what?"

That was the question. What indeed?


	22. Chapter 22

**Monday May 11, 2020**

To his surprise, Eowyn's hands were empty today.

There was probably a simple reason—she'd left her newspaper in her own rooms, or it hadn't been delivered yet.

"Good morning," he said, standing to go and pull out her seat.

"Good morning." As she sat, he pushed in her chair.

"Something wrong?" he asked as he reclaimed his own seat.

Flicking out her napkin, she frowned. "Why on earth would something be wrong?"

"You didn't bring your newspaper with you. Could you not find something in The Edoras Times to verbally beat me with today?" Or physically, for that matter, given how fond she was of thrashing him with it…

"Sadly, no." She wrinkled her nose and waved him away. "I think your sex life is old news, now. There's apparently some kind of bribery scandal brewing. Something big, involving the Civil Service and Mordorian money. That's more interesting for the papers than who you do or don't want to marry."

"Not sure I like the sound of a bribery scandal, but if it takes the heat off me, I'm not complaining."

She reached for her pot of tea. "So, if we're lucky, we might have a regular, easy, problem-free Monday."

He thought about what Elfhelm had told him. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"Oh, so you're about to ruin _my_ Monday, then?"

"Even I can still occasionally surprise you, it seems."

"And what outrageously joyous news are you about to surprise me with?" she asked, filling her cup. "Have you decided you're in love with a man? Or, that you want to give up the Crown and go live up a talking tree in Fangorn Forest?"

"Nothing as dramatic as that." Although, sometimes, the talking three thing sounded quite nice. At least the trees wouldn't bitch him out for not being married.

"What, then?"

"I had lunch with Elfhelm yesterday—"

Eowyn huffed. "Eomer, you have lunch with Elfhelm at _least_ once a month. If you want to surprise me, you're going to have to try a little bit harder than that."

"Yes, well, if you would let me finish"—he paused to glare—"I was about to say, and Elfhelm told me something alarming."

"Which was?"

"You have to promise not to share this with anyone, okay?"

"Did Elfhelm say you could share it with me?"

"As it happens, yes, he did."

She nodded quickly, giving permission. "I'm listening, then."

He finished his coffee and grabbed his pot to pour another. "Did you know, the Dowager Queen had lunch with Thenwis last week?"

'The _Steelsheen_?"

What other Dowager Queen would he mean? "Granna Morwen, yes."

"You're kidding."

Eomer shook his head. "I wish I was. And get this. Thenwis didn't go to Aldburg. Morwen went to Thenwis instead."

" _Here_ , in town?"

He'd surprised her twice in two minutes—wonders never ceased. "Last Sunday. Elfhelm says she turned up at noon, had a private lunch with Thenwis, left at two on the dot."

"But Morwen _never_ goes to other people. They always have to go to her."

"That's what's so alarming."

"Do I even want to know how on earth Elfhelm knows this?"

"Nothing illegal, don't worry. He knows someone who works at the house. That person saw Morwen arrive."

"Is that knowing someone, or _knowing_ someone?"

Eomer grinned. "The latter, I think. But whatever the explanation, he's got eyes and ears in the Colafell place." He used his cup to point at her. "Even you haven't managed that."

She sniffed and flicked her hair away from her face. "What makes you think I've even bothered to try?"

Her nonchalance might fool other people, but it sure as shit didn't fool him. "You? The woman who's trying to listen in on the whole damn city? The Princess of Snoopers, Snitches and Spies? Not trying to develop a source in our troublesome cousin's home?" He snorted. "Please."

"It's not hard to develop the sources. It's keeping them in place that's the problem. The Colafells have a really high turnover rate. They go through staff the same way you go through gullible women."

He decided to let that one slide. "That'll be Eldwis, I think. She strikes me as being the hard-to-work for type."

"Yes, because you're an absolute breeze."

But not that one. "I'm easier to work for than you," he shot back. "At least the staff don't run away and hide in cupboards when they hear me coming."

"No, they just lock up all their unmarried daughters."

"You make it sound as if I'm pillaging my way through the kingdom."

"Well, _aren't_ you?"

"I'll have you know, I have never pillaged a woman in my life."

"Seduced, then. Would that be a nicer way to put it?"

"It's not illegal to seduce people."

"But it might sometimes be immoral."

He couldn't help himself. "Only when you're doing it right."

She didn't even bother to roll her eyes.

"Did Elfhelm tell you anything else?" she asked, putting her tea down to grab some toast.

"Just that Morwen left in a hurry, and that Thenwis was angry after." Which might have been quite a sight, since their cousin had apparently inherited her late father's temper.

"That means Morwen wanted something. Something only Thenwis could give her."

"But couldn't, from the sounds of it."

"Or wouldn't."

"You think it was something to do with the petition?"

She grabbed a knife to carve out some butter and spread it across her toast. "You know how paranoid granna gets whenever there's so much as a _hint_ of a rumour about a challenge to the Crown. She lived through two rebellions against the King, once with her father-in-law, once with her own husband, and she doesn't understand we don't really behave like that now. She's probably worried Thenwis's petition will bring on a civil war, or the end of the monarchy."

"So, you think she asked Thenwis to abandon her petition…"

"And Thenwis said no."

Which meant only one thing. "She's going to continue. Thenwis, I mean. She's not going to give up. She's going to wait for Parliament to return, and submit her petition then."

"It seems that way, yes."

"Did we invite them to my birthday party?"

"The Colafells?" Eowyn nodded. "They're family. Of course we did. The invites went out in the last week of March."

"And they accepted?"

"I'd have to check, but I think so, yes."

"Any chance we can uninvite them?"

"Not really. I mean, I _could_ , but it would be awfully vulgar. It's just not the done thing."

But trying to stake a claim to your cousin's Crown was?

Eomer rubbed his eyes. "I just have this horrible feeling that Thenwis is going to give me the mother and father of all birthday presents."

"You think she's going to tell you then she's preparing to lodge her petition?"

"Would certainly be the perfect occasion for it."

"Surely, she wouldn't be so gauche. She _has_ to know, that would ruin your night."

"Wynna, if she lodges that bloody petition, she's going to ruin more than my night."

Eomer jumped as the door to the steam room flew open, looking around for something, anything, he could use as a weapon.

Until he remembered Vonnal and Guthlaf were standing outside, so it was highly unlikely anyone was coming to kill him. Which was just as well, given the only weapons he had to hand were a water jug and a slightly moist towel.

He tried not to groan as Eowyn stuck her head in, scowling, waving the steam away from here face. Even here, he couldn't have peace? Would she come to harangue him on the toilet as well? Wait until he'd dropped his trousers then thump furiously on the door? He might need to issue his guards with some new 'advice' on the matter…

"You're lucky I don't steam in the nude," he said.

Her sneer was derisive. "Please. As if there would be anything remotely worth seeing."

"I assume whatever it is you've come here to harass me about couldn't wait a mere twenty minutes?"

"I have things to do, Eomer. I can't stand around in the hall all day waiting for you to get out of the bath."

"I'm not bathing, Eowyn. I'm _steaming_."

"Yes, well, right now that makes two of us."

She'd come with a problem, then. Crap. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"This morning, when you told me Morwen had lunch with Thenwis last week, you said you were worried granna is up to something."

"Yes?"

She held up a piece of paper. "For once, I think you might be right."

"What's that?"

"This"—she shook the document—"is a letter from granna, withdrawing her previous response on the matter of your birthday party."

Dread pooled in Eomer's stomach. He'd been glad when Morwen had declined. She was his grandmother, and the Dowager Queen, but she had a tendency to dominate any social proceedings, regardless of who the proceedings were for. And she was _awfully_ fussy. She would spend the night complaining about her seat, or the temperature, or the food, or the noise, or the way he'd combed his hair, or the brand of gin the bar staff had used. "She's coming, then?" he said, resigning himself to not enjoying his party after all.

"Thankfully, not to the party itself, so there's a chance you'll still be able to have a good time, but she wants to have lunch with us the next day." Eowyn folded the letter up. "And I don't think it's so she can give the King a kiss for his birthday."


	23. Chapter 23

**Friday May 15, 2020**

"So, are you going to tell me how you managed to score us such a good table?" Solwen asked her best friend. Actually, no, not just good—one of the best, on the broadest, quietest part of the terrace, overlooking the Hill and Queen Morwen Drive. "Or, are you going to make me thrash it out of you?"

Across the table, Elisend Romengar winked and grinned. "I have my ways."

"You're not sleeping with the bartender, are you?" Solwen asked, gesturing at the man at the bar. He was tall and lean, with raven black hair—an uncommon sight in a country full of fair- and red-haired people. He probably had a Gondorian parent. "I mean, not that I would blame you if you were. He's rather easy on the eyes."

"I'm not sleeping with the bartender, no. But the General Manager is an old friend. We took some Third School classes together. I got her through Business Economics, she makes sure I get a nice table when I come in."

Solwen pretended to shudder. "Business Economics, Bema. Whoever invented _that_ as a subject needs to be taken out and shot."

"I quite like it, actually."

"Ellie, you work for the Ministry of Economic Development," Solwen tartly pointed out. "I should bloody well hope you like it." Life was far too short to put up with a job you despised, as her time in Lasgalen had eventually proved.

"So, how does it feel to be living in Edoras again?" Elisend asked. "You've been back for almost two weeks. You feel like you have your feet under you yet?"

Solwen turned her hand back and forth. "More or less, yes."

"And have you registered to vote?"

"I have indeed." It was one of the first things she'd done the previous week. "They won't have time to send me a polling card, so they told me to go to the special needs desk on the night."

Elisend snorted. "Your whole family is special needs."

"Anyone ever told you, you're quite funny for a Romengar?"

Grinning, Elisend added, "So, if you've registered to vote in Edoras, does that mean nobody's annoyed you so much yet you've decided to move back to the March?"

"No, but I'm sure that'll come in good time."

"Well, just so you know, I like having you home, so _I_ would miss you if you decided to leave."

That was the Ellie she remembered—kind and generous to the core. " _You_ would, but your mum and dad would probably throw me a leaving party." Or offer to take her to the train station.

Elisend sighed. "It's nothing personal, you know. It's just the political stuff, because our families sit on opposite sides of the Hall."

And always had, and always probably would. "I'm pretty sure we're the only example of a Romengar and a Hamelmark actually getting along."

"What can I say?" said Elisend, shrugging. "We're obviously both ground-breaking women."

"I can think of worse things to be." Like a Camelor, for one…

A woman approached the table—late twenties, tall and athletic, with cheekbones and toned upper arms to die for, flawless skin and umber-brown eyes. She was the archetype of an ancient shieldmaiden—just armed with towering heels instead of an axe. How the _hell_ did anyone walk in those things?

Smiling in welcome, Elisend stood, extending her arms to pull the woman into a hug, which the new arrival returned in kind. Solwen watched in amusement from her seat as warm greetings and cheek kisses were traded.

Elisend turned her way, gesturing to the newcomer. "Solly, this is Cenwen Hollowell, the General Manager. The one whose sorry ass I hauled through Business Economics." She gestured to Solwen. "Cenny, this is Solwen Hamelmark. We went to Second School together." Loud enough for Solwen to hear, Elisend whispered to Cenwen, "Keep your eye on this one. She's from the March. Woman could stir up trouble in a morgue."

Grinning, Cenwen held out a hand. "Always nice to meet a friend of a friend." Her accent was mostly Edoran, with a light Anorien lilt underneath.

"Same," said Solwen, taking the hand to firmly shake it. "Great place you're running here, by the way. It's one of maybe three restaurants in the whole country everyone in my family likes." Even Haradoc, which was saying something, given which city the restaurant was in.

"Well, thank you, isn't that sweet?" Cenwen turned to Elisend to murmur, "She doesn't seem like a troublemaker to me."

"She's still sober. Give her time." As Solwen opened her mouth to object, Elisend raised a finger to her. "And before you tell me I'm full of shit, I'll remind you of what you did at Harvest two years ago."

"What did she do?" an eager Cenwen asked.

"She tried to climb the statue of Eorl in Isendale Square to put a traffic cone on his head."

"It's a Marcher tradition," Solwen protested. "Something everyone in my family has done at some point or another." Her dad had done it when he was _twelve_. Which she was sure must be some kind of record.

"And did everyone in your family get themselves and their best friend arrested in the process?" Elisend wanted to know.

Eyes going wide, Cenwen clasped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, she did not."

Elisend nodded. "She bloody well did. Because of her, I almost had a criminal record."

Almost being the operative word. "It was fine," Solwen said. "The cops who tried to arrest us were guys. Ellie cried and gave them her puppy dog eyes"—and maybe a flash of her cleavage as well—"they let us off with a stern warning, made us promise not to do it again."

"Did you keep the promise?" Cenwen asked.

Solwen snorted. "We most certainly did not. We tried it again the following night, took _two_ cones up instead of one. We put one on Eorl's head, the other one over the point of his sword. He looked _spectacular_ when we were done." She grinned. "One of the proudest moments of my whole life."

"See what I mean?" said Elisend. "This is what I'm talking about. The woman's an absolute menace when she gets going."

Because Elisend hadn't played _any_ part in the matter at all. "I'm willing to admit my judgement may not be the best in the world once I've had a few drinks in me," Solwen said.

But her statue climbing skills were solid...

"Have you ladies ordered foot yet?" Cenwen asked as Ellie reclaimed her seat.

Solwen nodded. "Fifteen minutes ago, yes."

Cenwen gestured at their glasses. "You need another round yet?"

By way of an answer, Elisend drained the last of her wine and held her glass out. "I think we do, yes."

"Let me grab some refills for you," said Cenwen. "Same again, I assume?"

Solwen's answer was interrupted by a low rumbling sound. It was coming from the Citadel Hill, and growing louder by the second.

"Sounds like the King's about to pay us another visit," Cenwen said.

Before Solwen could ask what she meant, a group of motorbikes appeared on the Hill. Five riders in total, four of them on unmarked, bland-looking bikes arranged in a protective formation around the fifth person.

" _That's_ the King?" asked Solwen, pointing. If it was, he could only be the fifth man; who else would need to be protected that way? "On _that_ motorbike? The one in the middle of the group?"

Nodding, Cenwen moved to the railing to peer at the group. "But he's not on the Firefoot today."

Solwen stood up so hard and so fast she almost knocked her chair over. "Did you say a _Firefoot_?"

"A Firefoot S1000RR, yes. It's what he usually rides." Cenwen peered at the group again. "But he's on something older and smaller today. I can't quite see what it is."

As they watched, the motorbikes emerged from the roundabout at the Hill and trundled onto Queen Morwen Drive, gliding right past where they were sitting.

Solwen scrutinised the King's bike, trying to see the model and make. She jerked back, blinking. She would recognize it anywhere, since she'd ridden the same model herself.

The King was riding a Shadowfax 500. And, she was absolutely convinced, _her_ Shadowfax 500.

The bike she'd given to Brendal to fix. Brendal, who'd told her he'd spent the last month reprogramming a Firefoot S1000RR, and that he worked for a private place up the hill with a small but demanding clientele.

That sneaky, lying, devious _fuck_...

She and Brendal needed to talk. Not that she minded him lending her bike to the King—anyone who could handle an S1000RR could handle her Shadowfax with ease—but a little honesty would have been nice.

She watched the group go until it moved out of sight.

"Bema, Solly, stare much?" said Elisend, grinning.

She tore her gaze away from the bikes to turn back to her friend. Cenwen had disappeared, probably to fetch their new drinks. "I was looking at the bikes," she said.

Elisend snorted. "At the bikes. Sure."

"What the hell else would I be looking at?"

"Uh, the _King_?"

Solwen reclaimed her seat. "I'm a Marcher, Ellie. Takes more than a fancy title to impress me."

"Okay, how about the fact he's single and rich, and a seriously fine piece of ass?"

"Really?"

"Yes, Solly. Really."

"It's not that I don't believe you. I just don't remember him being a seriously fine piece of ass. I mean, he was always good looking, don't get me wrong, just a little soft around the edges." And the last time she'd seen him, he'd had longer hair and been growing a beard—going through his 'ancient Rohirrim warrior' phase. Most Rohanese men she knew had gone through one (Erland's had been _extremely_ amusing), but for her, it was always a passion-killer. She much preferred the modern, tidy, clean-shaven look.

"Let's just say, he's grown into his looks."

"Take your word for it."

"You're not interested in him at all?"

She was intrigued by the motorbike part, and yes, maybe by the nice ass, but if she was being honest, not by much else. "I don't know him well enough to be interested. And I'm certainly not interested in him just because he's the King. If anything, it's a bit of a turn-off."

Elisend sighed and shook her head. "Eight years, and you're as hard to impress as ever."

Solwen grinned. "Harder, I think."


	24. Chapter 24

**Sunday May 17, 2020**

She caught the phone call on the third ring.

"Hamelmark residence," Solwen said, in her nicest, politest, earl's daughter voice. Since the election had been announced, they'd been taking more phone calls than usual from journalists and politicians, looking for her father's opinion on how the vote might go in the March, so they'd all been warned on pain of disinheritance to be on their best phone call behaviour. No answering with a mere 'Hello' now.

"Solwen, it's Brendal," a pleasantly familiar voice said.

She'd been wondering when he would call. "Brendal, hi, good to hear from you, how are you?"

"I'm very well, lass, thanks. And you?"

She grinned to herself. Only another Marcher would call her a 'lass'. "I'm very well, thanks. And can I assume from the fact you're calling that you have some news about my bike?" She already knew he did—she just wanted to see how many more tiny white lies he would tell to keep his boss covered.

"I do indeed. She's all fixed up and ready to go."

"Hmm, yes, I thought she might be," she said as nonchalantly as she could.

Silence.

She could almost hear him frowning.

"Sorry, lass. Not quite following you there."

"You can come clean, Brendal. I know what you did."

"I'm glad you do. Because I sure as fuck don't."

Time to put him out of his pain. "I was out with a friend for dinner last night. We went to Garadon's Keep. Lovely place. Have you ever been there?"

A pause, then, "A few times, aye."

"Then you'll know how good the view from the terrace is. You can see all the way along Queen Morwen Drive. You wouldn't believe how many bikes we saw."

Another pause.

He must be thinking furiously, trying to come up with a good cover story.

"You _did_ tell me I could take it for a spin," he said.

"I did indeed." Now, to catch him with his pants down. "But you must be a really important bike mechanic if you need to take four bodyguards with you."

He sighed. "That. Right."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me who you worked for?" she said.

"It was nothing personal. It was just a security thing. Anyone who comes into personal contact with the King as part of their job is supposed to keep quiet about it as much as they can. They don't want some psycho bampot using me to gain access to him."

She hadn't thought of that. "I suppose that makes sense."

" _And_ it keeps the fakers at bay."

"Fakers?"

"Fakers, aye. The people who get all buddy-buddy with me as soon as they find out who I work for," he explained. "One minute, I'm just some bike mechanic, the next, I'm their new best friend."

This was what living in Edoras did to you...

"I'm not a faker, Brendal. I have no interest in using you as a way to meet the King." She'd met him already; once was more than enough. And if she needed to speak to him again, she would go through the proper channels, use her status as an earl's daughter to request an audience with him.

"I know that now. But I had to be sure."

"But I wouldn't mind meeting one of his bikes."

She could tell from the put-upon way he sighed he knew exactly which bike she meant. "And when you say one of, you mean the Firefoot, don't you?"

"Just a wee peek. And only if it won't cause you any trouble."

"If I said it will, would that stop you?"

Instead of answering that, she said, "If you let me come to collect the 'fax instead of bringing it back to me here, I could have a look at it then?" That seemed the easiest arrangement to her—it would give him a good cover story if anyone further up the food chain questioned why she was there.

He sighed again. "Let me see what I can do. There are security procedures I need to follow. I'll call you back when I know more."

This time, the shoe was going to be very much on the other foot.

Brendal picked up the phone to redial the last outgoing number. Same as before, someone picked up after three rings.

"The Hamelmark residence," a strange woman's voice said.

Probably a maid or a housekeeper. "Yes, good morning, could I speak to Lady Solwen, please?" Brendal said, channelling his inner Colwenna.

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Could you tell her it's Brendal, please? She knows me, she's expecting my call."

"Of course. One moment, please."

The woman set the phone down; a few moments later, someone else picked it up. "Hi, it's me," Solwen said.

She already knew it was him; no point in wasting time on another round of greetings. "Can you collect the bike at four o'clock?"

" _Today_?"

"This afternoon, aye. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. I'm just surprised you can be that quick. You said there were security procedures. I was sure they were going to take a couple of days."

Now, it was his turn to trick her into a trap. "Aye, well. Funny wee story, that."

"Oh?"

"You're right. It does usually take a couple of days. Minimum of twenty-four hours, can be as long as ninety-six if there's a lot of stuff to check. I thought it would be tomorrow at least. But wouldn't you know it, when I went to the security office to give them your name, it was already on a pre-approved list?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That seems a bit strange."

Bema, she was a bloody good actress—she could give Gwenna Freebourn a run for her money. "Not strange at all. Seeing as how you're the bloody Earl of Hamelmark's daughter," he thundered.

"Well, of course I am," was all she said.

What the fuck did she mean, of _course_ she was? "You never told me that," he said. All that worrying about whether to call her 'Mrs' or 'Miss', and he should have been calling her 'Lady' instead.

"I never told you I wasn't. And I thought you already knew. I mean, we have one of those stupid lamp posts at the end of our drive, the ones they put up at the house of anyone who sits in the Hall, and you've been to our holding in Isendale, and I said my brother was the heir, and you've met my grandfather several times."

Mother of Bema; he'd just made an _utter_ tit of himself. "I didn't realize what that all meant. Someone probably told me who you all were at the Isendale party, but that was twelve years ago, lass." He snorted. "Or, should I call you milady now?"

"Fuck no. Only fakers call me that."

"So, you've dealt with them as well?"

"My dad's an earl, Brendal. Of course I have. They probably don't hang around as long as yours do, though. When they realize which earl, they tend to vanish pretty quickly. They're always looking for someone more influential and saner than him."

"Your dad's a lot more influential than you think if your name's on a pre-approved security list. They don't do that for just anyone, you know."

"That's got nothing to do with who I am. That's something else. And I don't know what."

He remembered, then, what else had happened in the security office. "Oh, aye, and one other wee thing came up."

"What's that?"

"By any chance, have you ever _punched_ someone?"

She sighed. "Who told you that?"

"The guys in the security group. When I turned round to leave, one of them warned me to watch out for your right hook. I've no fucking idea what he meant, but he seemed to think it was funny."

Another, wearier sigh. "As it happens, yes, I have. But it was one time, ten years ago, and the guy I punched really deserved it."

"Where did it happen?"

"In the Golden Hall."

Eru and all the Valar save him. And he'd talked this woman up to the _King_ , of all people…

"Lass, does the King know what you did? The punch, I mean?" Eomer hadn't been King ten years ago—he might not have been there when it happened.

"You could say that, yes. He was standing ten metres away."

"You've met him, then?"

"Just that one time. Like I said, we're not as influential as people think. My dad's an earl, but that doesn't mean we move in posh social circles."

Maybe not, but if she'd met the King for a non-work reason, she was moving in much posher circles than him. "Am I allowed to ask who it was you punched?"

"Guy named Thelden Camelor."

"Don't know him. But related to the earl, I assume?"

"His younger brother. Total wank. You'd fucking hate him."

"I can imagine."

"If it helps, I'm much more civilized now. If I come up to the Palace today, I won't even frown at people, much less threaten to punch them."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

That was good enough for him. "Okay, here's what you need to do—"

"Hang on, let me grab a pen and some paper." Some rustling at the other end. "Sorry, you were saying," she said.

"Go to the main gate on Citadel Drive," he said. "Go to the security checkpoint, it's the booth on the right hand side, at four o'clock precisely. Do _not_ be late. Bring some government ID with you. Something with a recent photo. Your passport or your driver's license. Tell them who you are, show them your ID, the guard on duty'll verify you and let you through. There shouldn't be any problem, You're pre-approved, like I said, and I've arranged for your name to be on the access list for two hours. Once you're through the main gate, the guard will tell you how to get to the inner gate. I'll meet you there, take you the rest of the way. Oh, and it's possible the guards will frisk you, so be ready for that."

"Sounds like a serious process," she said.

"It's the Meduseld Palace, lass. And the King's in residence right now. The security's going to be as tight as it gets."

"I should leave my chopping axe at home then."

Was she trying to wipe ten years from his life? "You bring anything dangerous with you, the guards won't have to deal with you, because I'll bloody well shoot you myself." Or, throw her over the outside wall—whatever was quicker and cleaner.

"I'll see you at four o'clock then."

"That you will."

He put the phone down.

An earl's daughter. Who'd punched someone in front of the King. Now, he needed a fucking drink…

The layout was different from what she remembered.

Granted, she'd only been in the Palace complex once, ten years ago, to attend a formal event where the car had picked them up at the house and taken them right to the Golden Hall. Today, she was on foot instead. She was through the main gate, heading towards an inner security point, wearing her riding jacket and boots, carrying her gloves and helmet in her right hand.

A curve in the road opened out, revealing a tall, wrought-iron, railing-style fence with sharp arrowhead spikes at the top. Brendal was at the other side, eyes down, hands in his pockets, kicking pebbles along the road. At the sound of her steps, his head came up; she smiled and gave him a wave, he raised a hand to wave back.

As she approached, he opened the pedestrian gate to let her through. "Any problem at the main gate?" he asked.

"None at all. But the pat-down was pretty extreme. I've had men try to do less than that on a first date."

"Did you complain?"

"I certainly did."

"What did the guards say?"

The heavy gate clanged shut behind her. "He told me if I didn't approve, I was welcome to turn round and walk away."

His scowl told her what he thought of her treatment. "By any chance, was he dark-haired, short and stocky, with a scar on his right cheek?"

She nodded. "The very man, yes."

"That's Heredig," he said. "Total wanker. Has a complex about his height. Likes to take it out on people whenever he can."

"I figured it might be something like that." She switched her helmet to her left hand. "I was going to say more, but he looked as if he was itching for an excuse to body-slam me into the ground, and I didn't want to make his whole month."

"Good choice." He turned to wave at the road behind him. "The garage is down this way."

This part of the Citadel Hill was more of a series of tumbling cliffs than a slope. The road clung to the rock, barely ten feet wide in some places, hemmed in by a chest-high barrier on the sheer side. A sign jutting out of the stone showed the (low) speed limit, and that pedestrians had right of way. A sensible rule, given there was no room for a sidewalk as well. As they strolled, Solwen looked up, surprised to see the distinctive shape of the Golden Hall above them. Definitely different from what she remembered—she'd been sure it was over on the other side. "You ever been in it?" she asked, pointing a finger at the sky. "The Golden Hall, I mean?"

Brendal nodded. "A few times, yes. When the King turned thirty, he threw several parties. He had one in the Hall for all of the staff."

"That was nice of him." And in her experience, not the kind of thing someone who liked having his boots licked would do.

"He's mostly a pretty nice guy."

"Mostly?"

He shrugged. "Everyone has an off day from time to time."

What did a King's off days look like, she wondered? Did he whip a hapless lackey? Or, roam the Palace's corridors, threatening to have anyone who looked him in the eye killed? "I've only been in it once," she said. "For my dad's confirmation ceremony."

"Is that where you threw the punch?"

Grinning, she nodded. "The very place, yes."

"Well, if you're going to punch someone, that's certainly an auspicious place to do it." They stood aside to let a car pass, flattening against the cliff. Brendal waved at the driver, who be-beeped the horn in response. "Can't imagine your dad was very happy with you," he said. "Must've ruined his big occasion."

They started walking again. "He was angry with me for causing a fuss, but angrier when I told him why." Her father had gone from tolerant but pissed-off parent to wanting to rip off Thelden Camelor's balls in less than the blink of an eye. Only the solemnity of the occasion and the presence of so many royals and Landed had stopped him from adding another punch on top of her own. "To be honest, I don't think he cared about the ceremony at all. Pretty sure he would have skipped it if he could have, but it was a legal requirement to inherit the title back then." Not now, though—another one of King Eomer's many reforms.

"Your father doesn't use your grandfather's name, so I assume that means he inherited the earldom from his mother?"

"That's right. She was the Countess of Hamelmark in her own right. And because my dad was her heir, he took her name instead of my grandpa's." She might have been a Giantsbane, in another life…

"And he doesn't take it too seriously? The whole being an earl thing?"

"The parts of the role that deserve to be taken seriously, absolutely, yes."

"But not the bowing and scraping stuff."

She grinned. "He's not so good at that part, no. To be honest, no one in our family is. We've all got too much insolent Marcher blood in us. Except for my stepmother, of course. But she's from Gondor. They do a lot more bowing and scraping there."

"They probably learn how to do it in school."

A sharp bend around the cliff brought them to the garage—a massive, bustling, noisy building. There were vehicles all over the place, in various states of repair, some ordinary, unmarked cars, some sporting the green and gold livery of the House of Eorl.

Brendal waved her up a low ramp. "The motorbikes are all in here."

Inside, he guided her into a maintenance bay, where the Shadowfax was waiting for her. He must have washed and waxed it as well—the paintwork looked even brighter and cleaner now than when he'd ridden it away.

He went to a shelf to grab a messy, colourful jumble of wires.

"What's that?" she said.

"This is your old electrical harness." He turned to throw it into a bin. "And that's where it belongs now."

"'You replaced the whole thing?"

He nodded. "Got to the point where it was less hassle than trying to isolate the source of the fault."

"Thank you. Appreciate that." No more breaking down at the side of the road in a rainstorm for her.

"You're very welcome. She was a joy to work on. I haven't had that much fun in months."

Which raised some interesting questions about what else the mechanic did for fun. "Did you get the chance to take her out for a ride?" She half-winked at him. "I mean, I know His Blessed Majesty did, but what about you?"

"I took her for a quick ride, yes. _Before_ the King did. Didn't want him to be the one who discovered my repairs weren't as good as I thought."

"What did you think?"

"I think the bike itself might be a classic, but the suspension certainly isn't."

She snickered. "A bit basic, isn't it?"

"She understeers a wee bit as well."

"Tell me about it. First time I ever rode her, I almost put her into a ditch."

"But other than that, she was a pleasure to ride. Loved every minute of it."

"Glad to hear it. And if you ever want another shot, you're welcome to come borrow her any time."

"Very kind of you."

She put her helmet on a shelf and pulled her wallet out of her jacket pocket. "So, what do I owe you for the work?"

He disappeared into a windowless room she assumed was his office, came back out with a piece of paper in hand. "Six sixty-five," he said.

"That seems awfully cheap." She'd expected to pay at _least_ a grand.

"It's only my labour you're paying for. You're getting the parts for free."

"Do I even want to know why?"

He stepped closer to murmur, "I put what I needed on the monthly parts order for the whole garage. If I was being a good boy, I would charge you for them, and pay the money back to the Crown Estate, but the paperwork's a pain in the arse, all this shite with something called GL coding, and nobody'll ever find out, so probably best not to bother."

"So, let His Majesty foot the bill?"

"Or the government. Whatever you're more comfortable with."

"Isn't that a wee bit naughty?" She worked with money, had spent a year on a compliance enforcement team, wasn't entirely comfortable with the concept of committing financial fraud.

"Not as naughty as the Adenbrook thing. We're talking six hundred pounds at the most. Fucking peanuts compared to what those devious bastards in the House of Commons all stole."

She couldn't argue with him on that. And bilking the central government out of money was something of a Marcher tradition.

She opened her wallet to pull out seven crisp one hundred pound notes, all bearing the bearded, grim-faced likeness of Helm the Wise. "There's seven. Don't worry about the change. Keep the rest to buy yourself some beer." Just not Hornburg Red, she hoped.

He took the bills from her, folded them up and stuck them in his back pocket. "Appreciate that, thank you."

"And I assume you're going to report that money as earnings on your tax return?" she said.

"Absolutely. I'm scandalized that you even asked."

Grinning, she put her wallet back in her pocket and wandered out of the maintenance bay to scan around the garage. There were people and parts all over the place—mostly for cars, some for bikes— but she couldn't see what she'd really come here to see.

Brendal sighed. "Come on, then," he said, tugging her sleeve as he walked past. "I know what you're looking for. It's over here in bay one."

Two bays up, and there it was, locked into a stand in the floor—the King of Rohan's gleaming, green and gold Firefoot S1000RR.

She was so impressed, she actually groaned. "Brendal, that is the sexiest thing I have _ever_ seen."

"She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"If it was a man, I'd offer to have its children."

Cautiously, as if she was approaching a priceless work of art, she walked up to the bike. She circled it slowly, peering into its various parts, marvelling at what she saw. This wasn't just a motorbike—this was an offering to the Gods of Engineering—a one-of-a-kind, high-octane sculpture moulded from petrol, rubber and steel. From the diamond-shaped headlight, to the flared tank, to the almost sensuous line of the waspish rear section, to the organ-pipe row of four exhausts arranged under the tail, she had never, _ever_ seen anything like it.

She pointed at the gleaming black forks, recognizing an expensive and useful mod when she saw one. "DLC on the forks, right?"

Brendal nodded. "For anti-friction. We tried Titanium Nitride first, but the DLC works better. The gearbox is coated in it as well."

She kneeled down to peer at what she could see of the internal structure through the gaps in the matte-finish fairing. "Trellis frame, right? Not a delta?"

"That's right."

"What's it made from?"

"The frame's chrome-moly steel, but they used machined aluminium alloy wherever they could."

"That'll help to keep the weight down."

"A wee bit, yes, but not as much as the fairing and wheels."

She leaned out to glance at the star-shaped rear wheel, positioned perfectly at the end of a lean, efficient, single-side swingarm. "Carbon fiber, I assume?"

Brendal grinned. "Plastic wheels, aye."

"Do I even want to know how expensive they are?"

"Let's just say, if you have to ask how much a replacement rim costs, you can't afford to buy it."

She tapped the rear tire, recognizing the distinctive tread pattern of an expensive, high-end brand. "Can't imagine tires like this are easy on the wallet either."

"The only thing that makes them expensive is the way the bloody owner goes through them."

"Wee bit hard on the throttle, is he?" Not that she'd never been like that herself, especially when she was younger. And with a bike like this, it would be tricky to _not_ be hard on the throttle.

"Let's just say, when it comes to accelerating away from the line, His Majesty's not the most patient of people."

"What's the max torque?"

"One-fifteen at nineteen-hundred."

"And the horses?" In Rohan, an all-important question.

"That depends."

She frowned. "On what?"

"On whether you want the honest answer, or the law-abiding one."

She remembered his comment from when he'd come to pick up her bike, about reprogramming the fuel injection control unit. "You modded the EPROM, didn't you?" Not completely illegal under Rohanese law, but not entirely above board, either. And, unless the King was spending a lot of time at the track, she couldn't imagine why it was needed. The highway limit was one-ten. Even a regular, mid-sized bike could do that.

"I couldn't possibly comment."

"Does the King know what you did?"

He barked a quick laugh. "Lass, who do you think asked me to do it?"

"Bloody hooligans, the pair of you."

"You're telling me, if you owned this bike, you wouldn't mod the EPROM as well?"

"Brendal, if I owned this bike, I wouldn't have taken it out of the crate, much less tried to mod it. It should be up on a fucking shelf with the wedding photos and family china."

"Fair point, aye."

She leaned over to peer at the dash. "So, what effect did the mod have?"

"Took the horses from two-oh-five at thirteen-four to two-twelve at thirteen-six."

"Thirteen _six_?" she exclaimed. That was positively obscene—almost GP racing level. "Bema, Brendal, what the _fuck_ does it redline at?"

"Fourteen two."

"I would say that should be illegal, but I'm pretty sure it already is."

"It's only illegal if you get caught."

The age-old Marcher defense. "And no cop in the whole kingdom's going to be daft enough to ticket the King."

He snorted. "No cop in the whole kingdom's going to be _able_ to ticket the King. They'd have to bloody catch him first."

"There is that, yes." She dragged her gaze along the bike, caressing its every curve with her eyes. "I don't suppose—"

"—absolutely not," Brendal said.

"You don't know what I was going to ask."

"You were going to ask me if you could take it for a quick spin. The answer is a resounding no."

She pointed out the main door. "Not even for twenty seconds around the main yard?"

"Not even to ride it over to the next bay." He strolled up to lay a hand on a handlebar, as if staking a territorial claim. "It's the one unbreakable rule of this garage, lass. Nobody, and I mean _nobody_ , not you, not me, not the Princess Royal, not even the Secretary of State for Transportation, rides the Firefoot except the King." He patted the seat, made from hand-stitched, Gondorian leather. "There's as much chance of you sitting on this today as there is of me becoming the next Steward of Gondor."

"You've never been on it, then?"

"Once, back when it was first delivered, but only to move it out of the van. When I say nobody, I mean nobody, lass."

She leaned over to whisper, "But His Majesty must be off doing kingly things for most of the day."

"Aye?"

"So, if one of us took it out, even just to ride it around the main yard, how would he even know we'd been on it?"

"I'd know," a man's voice behind them calmly said.

Brendal winced and muttered a curse in Rohirric.

She turned to greet the new arrival, half sure from the curt comment of who it would prove to be, and there he was in all his regal glory, Eomer King, the first of his name, Duke of the Mark, First Son of the House of Eorl, the mighty Horse Lord of Rohan himself.

Her first impression was that Elisend was right—he _had_ grown into his looks. He wasn't as classically handsome as Bard of Dale—his features were slightly too unusual for that—but he was certainly attractive, in a strange but pleasing Rohanese way. He was somehow taller than she remembered, and slightly leaner as well. He'd been maybe ten pounds heavier when they'd last met, and as much as the extra weight had looked fine on him, the toned look suited him even more. She was relieved to see he was clean-shaven now, with short, tidy, neatly-trimmed hair.

And attractive or not, he _was_ still the King.

She wouldn't curtsy, not in these boots, but she lowered her head in a small bow of sorts, ever-mindful of her manners. "Your Majesty, it's very nice to see you again."

He frowned, confused, then his eyes went wide, probably as he put a name to her face. "Lady Solwen," he said. "Forgive me, but it's been a while since we last met. I didn't immediately recognize you." He moved closer, holding out a hand. "How are do?"

She took the hand to shake it. "I'm very well, sir, thank you. And you?"

"Also well, thank you." His frown deepened; he looked to Brendal then back to her. "But you won't mind if I ask, what the _hell_ are you doing in my garage?"

He asked it so bluntly, one could almost think he was from the March. "I'm here to collect my motorbike, sir."

"Your motorbike?"

She turned to gesture at the 'fax, just visible from where they were standing. "My Shadowfax, yes."

"The Shadowfax? That's _yours_?"

"Yes, sir."

"You didn't tell me that," he said to Brendal, his tone half-questioning, half-accusing.

Brendal shrugged. "Didn't occur to me that I needed to, sir."

"You told me the owner was a distant cousin."

"Aye, that's right."

Brows raised, the King waved from one of them to the other. "You're telling me, the two of you are cousins?"

" _Distant_ cousins," Brendal explained. "My mother and Lady Solwen's grandfather both belong to the Giantsbane clan. I'm not sure what the actual blood relationship is."

"Third cousins once removed," Solwen added. She smiled at Brendal. "I asked my grandfather, after you came to pick up the bike."

"Huh," was all the King said. He sighed, and turned a polite smile her way. "So, you ride, then?"

What the hell kind of idiotic question was that? She'd just told him she was here to collect a motorcycle. Of _course_ she rode. "Yes, sir, I do."

He cleared his throat. "I, uh, I hope you don't mind, but I actually took the Shadowfax out for a spin."

"Yes, I know you did."

"You do?"

"I was having drinks with a friend at Garadon's Keep last night. I saw you and your bodyguards go by."

"I hope that wasn't too presumptuous of me."

"A _tiny_ bit, yes." She took the opening while she had it. "Especially since you won't return the favour."

Beside her, Brendal muttered something vulgar again, but in Dunnish this time instead of Rohirric.

The King's features curled into a grin. "You mean because I won't let you take the Firefoot out for a ride."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you believe it's actually not just a possessiveness thing, that it's also for security reasons?" He turned to gesture at a tall, imposing, stony-faced man standing in the doorway behind him. He was wearing some kind of uniform—black trousers paired with a Rohan green jacket showing the crowned horse sigil of the House of Eorl. "Fastmer doesn't want anyone else to touch it, in case they try to sabotage it."

Fastmer must be part of the King's protective detail, then. "I guess that makes sense," she said to the guard as much to the King. "But you can't blame a girl for trying."

"Not at all." The King grinned again. "In your shoes, I would probably have asked as well."

"Would you at least let me sit on it for a few minutes?"

Brendal made a strange choking sound; the King blinked and raised a questioning brow. In hindsight, that might have been a slightly inappropriate way to phrase her request.

The King turned to address his guard. "Any objection to that?"

The guard—Fastmer—sighed. "As long as she just sits on it, no."

"Go ahead," the King said. He pointed to her feet. "But if you don't mind, I'll ask you to take your boots off first."

In case she scratched or scuffed the paintwork when she threw her leg over, she presumed. That was fair. She'd seen plenty of people do just that.

She reached down to unstrap and kick off her boots. Carefully, nervously, painfully aware of who was watching, she approached the left side of the bike. At least it was locked into a stand, so she didn't have to worry about it toppling over. Curling her foot in behind her, she threw her right knee over the bike and slid over until her toes on the other side touched the ground. Her left foot was up on tiptoes as well—the bike was a few centimetres too tall for her, although she might be able to put her heels down if she was wearing her boots. Squeezing the tank with her thighs to steady herself, she pulled her feet up onto the pegs, feeling the grips jab into the soles of her feet through her thin socks.

"What do you think?" the King said.

Wincing, she shifted in the seat, trying to find a way to sit where the front edge didn't dig into her thighs. "The seat is excruciating."

"It's not the most comfortable thing you'll ever sit on, no."

"It's painful for me, and I don't have balls. How the hell do you even ride this without putting your future paternity status in danger?"

The scandalized eyebrow rose again. "My trousers have a lot of padding in them."

She reached forward to grab the handles, positioned so far forward and at such an extreme racing angle she had to lie almost flat across the tank to reach them. Suddenly, she wasn't so sure she wanted to ride the Firefoot after all. Would she even be able to? It wouldn't be the heaviest bike she'd ever been on, not with all that carbon fiber in the frame, but it would certainly be the most demanding. How could she steer it along a road when her arms were almost at maximum stretch, and she couldn't put both feet on the ground, or lift her head far enough to see over the screen?

She pushed herself back up to a sitting position. "It's a beautiful machine, but I think I might have to rethink what I said about wanting to ride it."

"Why's that?"

"Because I think it needs a level of riding ability I just don't have," she said. She was a rider, but this was a bike for a racer, and a smart, capable one at that.

The King came to stand beside her. "It's an extremely demanding piece of machinery, yes. You can customize everything from the swing arm length to the suspension to the traction control, but no matter what you do, riding it's still like grabbing a dragon by the tail."

"I'm a good rider, and a safe rider, but I think this would be more than I could ever manage."

"No shame in admitting that. It's when you won't accept something is beyond you that you run into trouble."

"Is His Majesty speaking from personal experience there?"

"A little bit, yes," he said, grinning.

She liked his grin. And his eyes. And the way his cheeks dimpled.

"You ever binned it?" she asked. Something she'd been lucky with herself—the worst she'd ever had on the 'fax was a small topple over.

"Just once." He made a sliding motion with his right hand. "A lowside going into a curve. Hit some gravel on the road, the front wheel slid out from under me. Was barely doing twenty, so didn't really do much damage."

"Except to your wallet and pride, I assume." And maybe his arse and leathers as well.

" _And_ to Brendal's drinking habits."

She tapped the electronic display. "I hear you've made some interesting mods."

The King turned to sigh at Brendal. "I thought we weren't telling people that part."

"Sorry, sir. It just slipped out."

The King turned back. "We may have made a few _minor_ modifications, yes."

"Minor, right."

She slid to one side of the bike, putting her left foot all the way down. The King stepped away, giving her the room she needed to bring her right leg over and off. Once she was clear, she stuck her feet back in her boots and fastened them up. "Am I allowed to ask what else you have?"

"Of course."

With Brendal and Fastmer trailing behind, he led her to another bay across from where the 'fax was sitting. It held three bikes—a chunky-wheeled off-roader, a silver sports tourer and a lean, classic café racer.

"No shiny cruiser with open pipes?" she asked.

He wrinkled his nose. "I'm not really a cruiser kind of guy."

"Yeah, me neither." She'd never understood the attraction—so much noise, and all that chrome was an absolute bitch to keep clean. "Which one's your favourite?"

He pointed back the way they'd come. "The Firefoot. Hands down."

"Any particular reason? I mean, other than the fact it's faster than stink?"

"It's about how much you need to put into the process, just to stay alive. When you ride it, you need to give it a hundred percent, mentally and physically. Anything less than total focus, it'll teach you to mind your manners in a way you'll never forget." He grinned, showing her his delicious dimples again. "But the faster than stink part is good as well." He turned to wave at the 'fax. "What about you? You ride anything else?"

"Just the 'fax right now."

He walked to the other bay to circle her bike. "I never thought I'd see one in the flesh," he said, trailing a hand along the tank. "I can't believe the condition it's in."

"My grandmother made me promise to take very good care of it."

"That was your father's mother, right?"

She nodded. "The late Countess of Hamelmark, yes."

"I was at her funeral."

"I remember." Only just—she'd been so caught up in her grief she'd barely noticed the presence of anyone other than her immediate family members. She remembered him and his sister arriving in a convoy of cars and guards, him offering some comforting words to her grandfather and father, and his sister singing a verse of the Lament for the Dead, but none of it in any great detail.

He tapped one of the handlebars. "Any chance you'd ever be willing to sell it?"

"If I said absolutely none at all, would you be insulted?"

"I would say I'd give you a very good price, but I'm guessing it's not a money matter."

"It isn't, sir, no."

"If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Of course." She didn't tell him not to hold his breath—there was more chance of her sprouting wings and flying than there was of her selling her grandmother's bike.

Fastmer quietly cleared his throat, perhaps reminding the King he had more important places to be.

The King checked his watch. "It was very nice to see you again, Lady Solwen, but I'm afraid I'll have to leave this here."

"Was very nice to see you again, too, sir." Moving a little closer, she dropped her voice. "And thank you for the prompt response on the letter."

"You're very welcome. Just don't make me regret my decision. You punch any more people, my revocation will be just as prompt."

"No more punching people, sir, I promise." Not at one of his parties, at least. She reserved the right to punch her own brothers. And maybe, occasionally, her father as well.

"Good." He nodded and turned to head for the door.

Brendal, who'd been hanging back through their conversation, quickly stepped forward again. "Was there a reason you came down to the garage, sir?" he called out.

Snapping his fingers, the King turned back. "There was, yes, sorry." He pointed at the Firefoot. "Can you check the anti-wheelie setup for me? When I took her out last week, she was trying to lift up every time I opened the throttle."

"I don't think that's the anti-wheelie setup, sir."

"What the hell's wrong with her, then?"

"It's a radical suggestion, sir, I know, but could you maybe try opening the throttle a wee bit more smoothly?"

Solwen giggled, earning her a mildly reproving but regal glare.

The glare turned on Brendal, who sighed, smiled politely and said, "I'll take a look at it this afternoon, sir."

"Thank you, Brendal."

With a final smile and nod her way, the King left, trailing Fastmer behind him.

Once he was gone, she blew out her breath. "That was interesting," she said. In precisely what way, she wasn't quite sure. He seemed like a decent person, not like a stuck up, budding despot at all, but Thelden Camelor's first ever words to her had actually been quite charming, and everyone knew how _that_ had turned out.

"When it's the King, it always is."

"I loved your advice. About how he should open his throttle more smoothly. I thought he was going to order his guard to have you whipped."

"He can order Fastmer to whip me as much as he wants, it won't change the fact it's true. I know the way he rides. He pulls on that bloody throttle like he's trying to tame a wild horse. I keep telling him, he needs to develop a more subtle touch."

"And if he doesn't want a bike that wheelies, he shouldn't have bought something with so much torque."

"Exactly."

"He must be a pretty good rider, though. If he can handle something as tricky as the 'foot." Better than her, apparently. Although, he did have a bit of height on her, so he'd at least be able to see over the dash and put his feet on the ground.

"I'd say he's as good as any non-pro rider can be." Brendal levered a toolbox off a shelf, turned to place it on a counter, cracked it open and started to rifle through it. "He's been riding since he was ten, and he's put in a fair amount of time at the track. He doesn't just know how to ride the bike. He understands the physics of how riding works, all the stuff about forward energy and gyroscopic forces. Especially at speed on a series of curves. For a guy who does them as a hobby, his quick flicks are pretty good."

"You ever go out riding with him?"

"From time to time, yes. But it's usually just him and his guards. I think riding is private time for him."

"He probably doesn't get a lot of that. Private time, I mean."

"Oh, he gets plenty of _private_ time. Trust me."

She didn't need to be a genius to figure out what that comment meant. "Now, now, Brendal. You shouldn't believe everything you read in the tabloids. I’m sure it's not as bad as it sounds."

"Got nothing to do with what I read in the tabloids." He came over to murmur, "Got everything to do with what I've seen going on in this place with my own two eyes. It bloody well _is_ as bad as it sounds."

So, Eomer had a nice smile, he seemed quite kind, and he liked to get it whenever he could. Oh, and he rode a hot bike as well. Just a pity he was the King—that was four of the five things she looked for in a man right there. "Don't hold the details on my account."

He went back to his toolbox, shaking his head. "Sorry, lass. There's a confidentiality clause in my employment contract, so unless you want to cover my legal costs when they fire me and sue me for breach of terms, that's as much as I'm saying."

"It's a little disgraceful, though, don't you think? He's almost thirty-four. He really should be married by now. _And_ have a couple of kids."

Brendal laughed. "Aye, lass, that he should."

Back at the house, her dad was in the front garden, wearing his ratty, patched up jeans with (another) old t-shirt again, pushing a mower over the lawn.

A rotary hand mower at that. No new-fangled electric mower here.

She parked the bike up and pulled off her lid. "You do realize, we have this wonderful thing called electricity now?"

"I like having toes," he said, pushing the mower forward again. " _And_ not being electrocuted."

And having a badly cut lawn, it seemed. "I thought we had a gardener guy?"

"We do."

"Then, why the fuck are you doing it yourself?"

"Because it's relaxing." He rolled the mower again. "Every time I push it, I imagine it's running over the severed heads of my enemies."

Which wasn't at _all_ disturbing. "You could just do what the rest of us do. To relax, I mean."

"Which is?"

"Drink?"

He grinned. "Who says I don't do that as well?" He stopped, resting his elbows on the mower handle. "How's she doing?" he asked, gesturing at the bike.

"Great so far, but I've only ridden her a couple of miles."

"You've switched her off. Why don't you fire her up, see if she behaves?"

She went to the bike, turned the key and pressed the ignition button. The engine sprang to life without so much as a moment's complaint.

Ten points to Brendal.

"Sounds promising so far," he said, going back to the mower. "Try her tomorrow morning as well, see how she does then."

She killed the engine and took out the keys. "I shouldn't have any issues now. Brendal replaced the whole harness for me. Said it was easier than trying to find the source of the short."

"Cost much?"

"A fair bit, yes, but not as much as I expected."

"Will I have the pleasure of paying the bill for you?"

"Certainly not. I'm twenty-eight, for Bema's sake. Perfectly capable of paying for my expenses myself."

"I'll remember that when the next gas bill arrives."

Annoyance surged through her. "I already told you, I'm happy to pay for what I use in the house. Don't tell me I don't have to, then complain when I don't."

Sighing, he paused to lean on the mower again. "Sweet pea?"

"What?"

"I'm _kidding_."

She should have known that. "Anyone ever told you, what a total arsehole you are?"

"Jothren Romengar might have mentioned it a few times, yes." He pushed the mower forward again.

More than a few times, she was willing to bet…

"What's the place like?" he said.

"Sorry?"

"The garage Brendal works in. You said it was a private place with a small clientele. What's it like?"

Should she tell him where Brendal worked? She couldn't see it would do any harm—it wasn't as if her dad would use Brendal to get to the King—but if she told him where she had gone, he would ask so many follow-up questions, she would also end up telling him who she'd bumped into while she was there. Her dad was a pain in the arse that way—he never knew when to stop talking and just call it quits. He always kept prodding until everything was out in the open, whether you wanted it out in the open or not.

And right now, she wanted to keep her meeting with the King to herself.

She didn't want to tell her dad about it. Or Erland. Or even Elisend, for that matter.

It would be simpler. And fairer to Brendal. And it wasn't as if anything salacious had happened. She and the King had talked for maybe ten minutes. About _bikes_ , of all things.

Nothing really worth sharing there.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer tells Colwenna who he bumped into in the garage.

The rest of his afternoon was jammed, so Eomer didn't make it back to his rooms until six.

There was no time to sit and relax. He was heading out again at six-thirty; he had just enough time to freshen up and change into a more formal suit.

As he was doing up his cuffs, Colwenna appeared, carrying a selection of ties. She held them up to show them to him. "One of these should do," she said.

He scanned the ties, made a quick choice. "That one," he said, pointing it out.

She draped the chosen tie on a hook and went to put the rejects away.

Should he tell her who he'd bumped into today? He couldn't think of a reason he shouldn't. And given how fast gossip here apparently travelled, and how in on that gossip she was, she might have heard already. "Did I mention, who I met down in the garage today?"

"Someone interesting, I assume," she called out from the walk-in closet.

For once, he could meet her request. "Does the Earl of Hamelmark's daughter count?'

"Hamelmark? Is that the one who punched Lord Camelor's brother?"

"Lady Solwen. That one, yes." He grinned to himself. "Although, she did promise me her punching days are behind her."

She emerged from the closet with his suit jacket. She gestured for him to turn around, held it behind him to let him slip his arms in. "What on earth was she doing in the garage?"

"Long story."

She let out a light huff. "When it involves a Hamelmark, when is it not?"

At least this story didn't involve a pissing horse or a peacock slaughter. "You remember that motorbike I tried last week? The one Brendal was working on for a friend?"

"The classic one? The Shadow-something?"

"The Shadowfax, yes." He plucked the tie from the hook to throw it around his neck. "Turns out, Lady Solwen was the friend."

She disappeared back into the closet. "Really?"

"More than a friend, actually. Did you know, Brendal is the Earl of Hamelmark's third cousin?" Eomer wasn't sure who that connection said more about—Brendal's family, or the Earl's.

"Can't say I did," she said, reappearing to set a freshly-polished pair of shoes at his feet.

"His mother is from the same clan as the Earl's father." He stuffed his feet into the shoes. "The Giantsbanes, I think he said."

"Explains a lot," Colwenna muttered.

He turned to raise a brow at her. "What in Bema's name does _that_ mean?"

"You know _exactly_ what it means."

"Sorry, but I don't think I do."

Colwenna sighed. "They're all troublemakers, sir. Not just Brendal. The whole Marcher lot of them. Doesn't matter what name they have or what clan they belong to."

Eomer was truly shocked; he'd never heard this opinion from Colwenna before. She disapproved of Brendal, yes, but he'd always assumed that was because of what Brendal did, not because of where he was from. He found her admission a little unnerving. "You shouldn't disapprove of someone just because they're from the March," he said.

"Got nothing to do with them being from the March. Got everything to do with them being a bunch of disrespectful troublemakers."

He started to do up his tie, realized he was doing it wrong, unwound it, started again. "Not sure anyone who slaps the King has the right to call other people disrespectful."

Scowling, she batted his hand away from his tie, finished tying the double knot for him and slid it into place so hard she almost made him cough. "I've earned the right to be disrespectful," she said. "And I only do it in private. And only when you really deserve it."

He turned back to the mirror to check how he looked. "Maybe Marchers all work the same way. Maybe they just think everyone always really deserves it."

She ran a lint brush over the back of his jacket. "So, what did you make of her?" she said, not-so-subtly changing the subject on him.

"Lady Solwen?"

"Yes."

"She's interesting. I mean, she likes motorbikes, so that's a good point."

"One up on all the women you met at the 'Forty Under Forty' event."

And being a Marcher, she probably shared his and Brendal's opinion of pigeons. "Exactly."

"Is she pretty?" The lint brush moved to his sleeves. "Last time I saw her, she was a little bit gangly, but she looked as if she might grow into her looks."

"Attractive, yes. Quite tall, has a nice figure, from what I could see." He shot her a grin in the mirror. "She's the spitting image of her father, though. Same colouring and facial features. Eyes are the bluest I've ever seen."

"Was she respectful?"

He shrugged. "Depends on how you define respect. She wasn't rude, and she thanked me for the prompt response to her letter, but she talked to me the way Brendal does, like I was just some guy she'd met in the street."

She went to put the lint brush away. "It's like I said. Troublemakers. It starts with them not being respectful. It ends with someone being punched."

"To be fair, the person she punched really deserved it."

She went to a drawer to bring out his box of watches. "That's not the point. Violence is no way to solve a personal problem."

"I'm pretty sure it solves the immediate problem. It just leaves you with a bigger problem to deal with instead." It certainly had, in Lady Solwen's case. The Camelors and Hamelmarks, never the best of friends to begin with, had been at each other's throats ever since.

"It's not an approach a King should ever adopt."

"Believe it or not, Colwenna, I _do_ actually know that." He couldn't remember when he'd last taken a swing at someone. Probably when he'd been at the College—there had been fights galore in the dorms after hours. And at Eowyn, once, when he'd been in his teens, but only in self defense.

"Good," she said, bringing his father's watch to him. "So, if I were you, I'd give the young lady a _very_ wide berth."

He took the watch to fasten it on. "You wouldn't approve if I wanted to invite her over for dinner, then?"

"That depends. Would it be a dinner to get to know her better, or a dinner where she's the dessert?"

Good question. And one he hadn't had time to think about. "She might not let me have her for dessert. She might turn the tables on me, try to have me for dessert instead." Would that be a terrible fate? Probably not. He liked bold women; he suspected he would rather enjoy it.

"The Princess Royal wouldn't approve."

This was bad, if she was moving onto the sister card already. Except, he had a higher value card to play back. "Don't be so sure about that," he said. "She told me she was going to add Lady Solwen to the Midsummer party list."

Colwenna's brows shot up so far and so fast they almost flew off the top of her head. "Really?"

"She's getting pretty desperate on the matchmaking front, it seems."

"That's not just desperate. That's bordering on insane."

"You _really_ don't approve of them, do you? Marchers, I mean?"

She stuffed a handkerchief in his breast pocket and smoothed the wrinkles out of his sleeves. "I have nothing against them, sir," she said, her tone guarded and polite in a way that made him sure she was lying. "But a lot of people in the Hall do, on account of the separation movement thing." She sighed. "And it's a cultural issue as well. They're just… they're so _different_ from us. From everyone else in Rohan, I mean."

"No more so than people from Inner Anorien or The Wold," he said. "Every region has its own cultural variations, but they're all still Rohanese underneath." That was how he'd always seen it, at least. He didn't approve of separation movements, but he didn't expect stolid uniformity, either. He wanted everyone to be free to do their own regional thing.

"It's still a tricky issue," she said. "A Marcher, _and_ a Hamelmark. If your only possible choice of bride was the Earl's daughter, I think a lot of the Lords would rather you just stay single instead."

"I'll put the dinner plans on hold, then."

"You'll do absolutely no such thing," she told him tartly. "Not on the Hall's account, at least. "You're the _King_ , child. Who you have dinner with is absolutely none of its business. Just be aware of what you might be getting yourself into." She stepped back to look him over and gave him an approving nod. "Very nice," she said.

He moved back to the mirror, adjusting his tie. "You don't think the suit is too light?" Not that he had time to change now.

"It's just a football match, sir, not a memorial service."

It would be, if Tronvene won…

He buttoned his jacket. "There's a function at the stadium after. I haven't committed to going, but if we win, I might pop in and say 'hi' to the players, have a quick drink;;;; with them. Don't wait up."

"You sure?"

He nodded. "Go enjoy the rest of your evening. I can take care of myself."

She wielded a finger at him. "Remember your promise to your sister. No distractions. If you don't come straight home when you're finished, she'll give you an earful about it tomorrow."

"Colwenna, she's going to give me an earful about _something_ tomorrow. I just don't know what."

"If you decide you need me after all, call me when you come in." Pausing to put the box of watches away, she quietly slipped out the door.

That stupid fucking promise of his. Five weeks on, and it was still causing him no end of trouble. He wanted to make Eowyn happy, but prolonged abstinence simply wasn't in his nature. But maybe that was another part of her plan. Maybe she figured, after a couple of months, he would marry someone just to get laid.

It wouldn't really do any harm if he broke his promise, would it? Not _every_ night, obviously—just once in a while, away from the Palace, to keep him balanced and sane.

He went to grab his phone, opened it, swiped through his contact list until he found Gwenna Freebourn's name. Would she be busy tonight? And would she want to see him again? He thought she might, but he wouldn't know unless he asked her.

His thumb hovered over the button.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to his baby sister.

Swearing quietly, he closed the phone and put it away.


	26. Chapter 26

What an absolute shitshow of an evening.

If he'd known three hours ago this was how it would end, he would have given the outing a miss and stayed at home to work on his papers instead. Bad enough that Edoras had just lost the King Folca Cup, but to lose it because they'd scored an own goal? While playing in their home stadium, in front of forty-thousand horrified fans, including the Chancellor and the King? Could a Cup Final result be any more humiliating?

Unfortunately, when the goalie had scored the own goal, one of the stadium's cameras had been trained on Eomer's seat in the VIP box. Bema knew what footage they had; he hadn't exactly reacted politely. He'd thumped the back of a chair with his fist, and dropped an f-bomb loudly enough to shock the club owner's wife. He'd apologized profusely, but the owner had then apologized profusely right back, vowing to fire the goalie by the end of the week.

Whatever footage the cameras had caught, it would no doubt be on the ten o'clock news. The whole country could see him briefly losing his shit and having a furious potty mouth moment. He wasn't concerned. If there was fallout, Fenbrand's media people would handle it for him, paint it as an example of how much His Blessed Majesty loved The Beautiful Game. And what man in his right mind could watch his team score an own goal and _not_ have a furious potty mouth moment?

Needless to say, he was giving the after-match function a miss. He hadn't committed to attending, and he wasn't sure he could look the goalkeeper in the eye. The poor bastard was already about to have the worst professional week of his life—he didn't need the King turning up to add more misery on top.

He peered through the rain-streaked window, trying to figure out what road they were on. The stadium was in a part of the city he didn't know well. Nothing looked remotely familiar, until he spotted the distinctive angular roof of the National Gallery in the distance. Now, he knew where they were. He should be back at the Palace in twenty minutes.

In his pocket, his cellphone buzzed. Probably Elfhelm, about to unload three languages worth of football-related expletives.

He pulled out the phone to check the incoming number. He didn't recognize it. But he'd given this number to maybe a dozen people at most, all of whom he trusted completely, so it must be someone he knew, just calling from somewhere other than their usual location. He pressed the button to raise the car's privacy screen, waited until it was all the way up, then swiped right to accept the call.

"Hello?" he said.

"Good evening, Your Majesty," Seorsa Camelor said. "I'm not interrupting anything important, am I?"

Her voice was always so soothing—like the sound of wind blowing through grass or the gentle patter of rain on a window. "Lady Camelor, not at all, no. How are you?"

"I'm very well, sir, thank you. And you?"

He sighed. "To be honest, I've had better nights." But she might be about to offer to change that for him—he couldn't think of why else she would be calling him at nine o'clock on a Sunday night.

"Oh, dear. That doesn't sound good. Anything I can help you with?"

"Unless you can change the final score on the King Folca Cup, I'm afraid not, no."

"Football, hmm. I'm afraid I don't really know much about it."

Drily, he said, "Neither does the Edoras goalkeeper, it seems."

"Did you watch the match at home?"

"At the stadium, actually. I just left. I'm in my car, on my way back to the Palace."

"Any plans for the rest of the night?"

A harmless-sounding question, asked in the most casual of tones, but with so much hidden meaning beneath it. "Nothing interesting," he said. "Some paperwork, the ten o'clock news, I might read for a while before I turn in." Probably not for long; so far, the second book about the Oath was proving to be just as coma-inducing as the first. Political history just wasn't his subject, it seemed.

"If you're in the mood for some company, you're welcome to come by for a drink."

And there it was, after barely a minute. They both knew what she meant by 'a drink'. There _would_ be a drink, maybe two, but only after (or maybe before) an hour or so of strenuous sex. And nobody did strenuous sex as well as Seorsa Camelor did.

Bema. He was getting aroused just thinking about it…

But as much as he wanted to, he couldn't. Or shouldn't. "You're very kind, but I'm afraid I have to decline."

"Are you sure? Because you know I make the best drinks. They always _go down_ so easy."

He didn't have the willpower for this, not after five weeks of a meatless diet. "You know how much I want to accept," he murmured. "But I can't afford to provoke your husband. He's already causing enough trouble for me as it is. I'd rather not give him a reason to cause even more." Which the Earl almost certainly would, if he ever discovered what he and Seorsa were doing. He was possessive with women, it seemed, even when he was trying his best to cut them out of his life.

She sighed. "Yes, about that..."

"About what?"

"My husband causing trouble for you."

"What about it?"

"I think there's more to what he's up to right now than meets the eye."

Cold trickled down his spine; his wicked thoughts evaporated. "Like what?"

"I'd rather not say on the phone."

"Seorsa, you're being awfully mysterious."

"I'm being awfully aware of the fact my arsehole of a husband and I are going through an extremely messy divorce, and he's the type of man who wouldn't think twice about tapping my phone if he thought it would give him a legal foot up."

"That reminds me. I didn't recognize your number. Where on earth are you calling from?"

"From the house, but I'm using a new cellphone I just set up today."

"Did something happen to your old one?"

"No, but I wasn't sure it was safe to use anymore."

"It bothers me, you know. That you feel you have to take precautions like that."

"Does it bother you enough that you might want to come to my house to console me?"

He couldn't help but grin. "Lady Camelor, as always, you are _incorrigible_."

"Why don't you come over?" she said, her soothing tone turning enticing. "We'll talk, you can check out my new security measures, I'll make us some drinks, make you forget all about the football result, give you a nice, relaxing end to your week."

He felt his willpower fading. "I really shouldn't. I promised Eowyn I would be a good boy."

"I'm quite sure you'll be an _extremely_ good boy."

He thought of another block. "I shouldn't visit if the children are home. They don't know me. It wouldn't be right." And he didn't want to scar them for life by balling their mother into next week in the room at the end of the hall.

"As it happens, they're with their father tonight. _And_ I gave the staff the night off."

"So, you're alone?"

She let out a mournful sigh. "All by myself in this big, cold house."

"Seorsa, it's the middle of May. It was twenty-four degrees today. How cold can you possibly be?"

She sniffed. "Big _empty_ house, then."

His willpower groaned under the strain, then crumbled like a badly built wall. "I can only stay for an hour or so. I have an early start tomorrow."

"An hour or so is all we need."

That seemed about right—ten minutes to talk, ten minutes to drink, forty or fifty minutes to fuck. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Don't pull up out front," she warned. "I think the woman across the road is spying on me. You should probably come in the back way."

He couldn't resist. "Now, _there's_ an offer I don't receive every day."

She huffed. "I'm sorry, but who's the incorrigible one?"

"I'm on way. I'll see you soon." He hung up the call and pressed the button to bring down the privacy screen. "Change of plans, gentlemen," he said to Vonnal and his driver.

His driver nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty. Where to now?"

"Take me to the Countess of Camelor's house."

"That's on Constitution Drive, sir, yes?"

"That's the one. But probably best to go to the back entrance."

The driver nodded again. "Very good, sir."

An hour and fifteen minutes later, they were lying side by side in Seorsa's bed, their legs tangled up in the sheets, sweating, breathing deeply and quickly.

It had been everything he'd needed and more—as hard and strenuous as he'd expected.

"So much for being a good boy," he said.

"I would tell Her Royal Highness that His Majesty was an _outrageously_ good boy, but I don't think she would appreciate it."

He rolled over onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. He reached out with his other hand to trace a finger around her lips. "Speaking of appreciating things, have I ever told you, how much I love what you do with your mouth?"

The mouth in question curled into a languorous smile. "You might have mentioned it a few times, yes."

"Makes me wonder why the hell your husband wants to divorce you."

She huffed a light laugh. "You think going down on him every day should be enough to persuade him to stay married to me?"

"Would persuade me, if I was him."

"But you're _not_ him."

"Thankfully, no."

"Believe it or not, Rogen actually doesn't like it."

"Really?" If he didn't think the Earl of Camelor was a moron before, he sure as hell did now.

"The only man on the whole planet who doesn't, it seems. But that might explain why he's so bad at giving as well."

"I hope my own efforts in that regard didn't disappoint you."

She leaned over to give him a lingering kiss. "As always, His Majesty was _extremely_ attentive to my physical and emotional needs."

"One does one's best with what one has." He slipped a hand behind her neck, tangling his fingers in the curls of her long auburn hair. He pulled her in to kiss her again, sliding towards the thought of staying for another hour…

"And what you have is rather good," she said when they pulled apart. She turned away to check the clock on her side of the bed. "It's almost ten-thirty, by the way."

"I should really get going," he said, giving up on the second hour, trying to persuade himself as much as her. "My guards will be getting tetchy."

"I can't imagine they've enjoyed patrolling the garden for the last hour."

"Given how open plan your house is, I think they would have enjoyed standing guard in your sitting room even less."

Grinning, she threw off the covers and leaned out to grab a robe. He did the same on his side, reaching down to pick up his briefs and trousers from where he'd dropped them on the floor.

"Will anyone be waiting up for you?" She went to grab the rumpled mass of his shirt, flicked it out and brought it to him.

He took the shirt to slip it on and button it up. "I doubt it. I already told Colwenna not to."

"Colwenna. Interesting woman, that one."

"Do you mean that in a good or bad way?"

She disappeared into the master bathroom. "For the sake of our friendship, I'm not entirely sure I should answer that."

Friendship. Hmm. That was an interesting way to put it. "I know she can be a little sharp"—he heard a light snorting sound—"but she's one of a handful of people in my life I know I can completely rely on." Which was sad, in a way, given he was the King. He should be knee deep in people he could completely rely on. "Sometimes, I don't know what I would do without her."

"Am _I_ someone you can completely rely on?"

He kept his voice neutral. "I'd like to think so, yes."

"Speaking of interesting women, I hear Solwen Hamelmark's back in town."

He should have known she would know—her gossip-collecting skills were almost as good as his sister's. "You're right. She is."

"So, that means you lifted her Ban?"

"I certainly did."

"Rogen's furious, you know. Or, rather, even more furious about the whole matter than he was before."

He sat down to put on his socks and shoes. "It's been ten years. Rogen needs to get over himself. It's not like he and Thelden even like each other."

"And it's not as if Thelden isn't giving him other things to worry about right now," she said, stepping back into the room, pulling a brush through her hair. "The fees for his legal defense on the Pump and Dump charges are going to cost Rogen a fortune."

"Speaking of things to worry about, what was it you wanted to tell me that you didn't want to talk about on the phone?" he said. In his rush to end his five-week drought, he'd almost forgotten his main reason for coming to see her.

"Of course, yes." She threw the hairbrush onto the bed and went to the door, beckoning for him to follow her. "It's downstairs, on my other phone."

He tucked his shirt into his trousers, grabbed his suit jacket and tie from the chair and followed her out.

Downstairs, she went to fetch a phone from her bag. She unlocked it, brought up the gallery app and started swiping through her photos. "When Rogen came to collect the children tonight, he brought his appointment planner with him," she said.

"Must be the only man in the world who still tracks his appointments the old-fashioned way."

"Yes, well, Rogen and technology don't really like each other."

Eomer was with the technology on that one…

"When he went upstairs to help Danrick bring down some books, he left his planner on the table," she said.

"And let me guess. You decided to avail yourself of an opportunity to do some spying? Check who he's been meeting with, in case it could help you with your divorce?"

"I did, yes. I knew I wouldn't have long, so I grabbed my phone, photographed as many pages as I could."

"You found something interesting?"

"It's _all_ interesting, Your Majesty. You wouldn't _believe_ the people he meets." She held out the phone to show him a photo. "But this one really stood out."

He looked at the photo, of a planner page dated April 17th.

"Look at the line for three o'clock," she said.

He brought the phone close to peer at the photo—'TC', was all the line read.

"Who or what's TC?" he said.

"I was a bit stumped by that one myself, until I remembered what happened the following Monday."

"What?"

"That Monday was the day Rogen published his attack on you in The Edoras Times. The same day Keveleok gave her speech in the Hall of Lords."

A shiver ran up Eomer's spine. "Thenwis Colafell," he murmured. "That's who 'TC' is."

Grim-faced, she nodded. "I don't know for sure, but I think he met with her before he sent in his letter." She swiped to the next photo. "And here, look at this entry for two o'clock on the eighteenth."

'Keveleok', that entry read.

"He met with Thenwis, then with Keveleok the day after," she said. "What happened that Monday, Rogen's letter in The Times, Keveleok's speech, that wasn't just two members of the Hall having the same idea at the same time. It was _all_ planned." Eyes brimming with concern, she laid a hand on his arm. "Thenwis is working with them. Rogen and Keveleok are doing some of her dirty work for her, attacking you, trying to undermine you and make you look bad, make her look sympathetic at the same time."

He gave the phone back. "We did wonder, Eowyn and I, if the three of them might be in this together."

"I'd say it's almost a given they are."

"What about Hereoch?" he added, remembering the third prong of that Monday's attack. "You find any sign he's part of this as well?"

"No, but I doubt he is. Rogen wouldn't acknowledge Hereoch if they passed in the street, much less invite him to help with one of his little schemes. And for all his shortcomings, Hereoch's a decent man. It's far more likely he just stumbled in of his own accord."

He remembered what Eowyn had said. "He probably thought he was helping."

"I also think there's more to come." She swiped the phone to the next photo. "Look at this, Rogen's calendar page for Wednesday this week."

He angled his head—the line for two o'clock said 'TC' again. "He's having another meeting with Thenwis."

"Maybe to pause and regroup? She can't go anywhere with her petition right now. Not until Parliament is back in session."

"That's only three weeks away. If they do have a plan in the works, they won't have to pause and regroup for long." He tapped on the phone. "Can you send me those photos? I'd like to show them to Eowyn, see what she thinks." He was glad now, that she hadn't shown them to him as soon as he'd come through the door—they were alarming enough that he would have turned around and gone straight home. And think of what filthy, strenuous fun he would have missed out on, then…

"The head of your security team, remind me, what his name is again?" she said.

"Algrin."

"You should show them to Algrin as well. He should know what's going on."

"I don't think we need to go there just yet. Algrin would only have to get involved if there was criminal behaviour of some kind. Or, if Rogen was threatening my personal safety. I don't like what your husband and Thenwis are doing, but so far it's all been perfectly legal."

Laying a hand on his chest, Seorsa shook her head. "You don't know him as well as I do, sir. He's an ambitious man. And a smart man. And an _utterly_ ruthless man. He's not the kind of person who attaches himself to a lost cause. If he's supporting Thenwis's petition, it's not because he likes her, or because he thinks her grievances are valid. It's because he expects to gain something from it."

It wouldn't be money—the Camelors were _drowning_ in it. "You mean, how she might repay him, if he somehow helps to make her Queen?"

"Exactly."

"Except, there's no way Thenwis will get anywhere with her petition," he said. "Even if the Hall of Lords voted to recognize her rights, it would be a purely ceremonial gesture. It wouldn't give her an actual place in the Line of Succession. Rogen can support her petition as much as he wants, but ours is a constitutional monarchy now, bound by the rule of law. If he wants to get rid of me, and make Thenwis Queen in my place, he would have to persuade the government to put forward legislation that not only _completely_ redefines the succession, but also retroactively invalidates my accession. That's so improbable, he might as well ask them to make his horse king."

"I know that, but I just think you should be careful. Rogen's an extremely persistent man. When he decides he wants something, he almost always finds a way to get it. You know as well as I do how much he hates your family—"

"—because of what happened to his father," he said. One of the House of Eorl's not-so-laudable moments.

She nodded. "Because of what happened to his father, yes. It's possible he's supporting Thenwis because he wants to hurt the monarchy, but I think he also wants to hurt _you_." Her tone turned firmer and more earnest again. "You need to have your security people keep an eye on him."

As if his life wasn't complicated enough already. "I promise I'll talk to Algrin tomorrow. Make sure he's aware of the issue."

The strain around her eyes relaxed. "That makes me feel much better."

He pulled on his jacket, leaned in to give her a final lingering kiss. He forced himself to break it off before wicked thoughts could surface again. "Thank you for tonight," he murmured.

She smoothed down his jacket. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

Taking her hand, he held it up to press his lips to her knuckles. "Countess, more than mere words could _ever_ express."

"His Majesty knows where to find me if he ever decides he'd like to enjoy himself again."

"He certainly does." He turned to head to the back door. Through the glass pane across the top, he could see a man standing outside—probably Vonnal, given his height.

"Your Majesty?" Seorsa called out softly.

He paused and turned. "Yes?"

"Be careful, please."


	27. Chapter 27

**Monday May 18, 2020**

Eomer was up at six o'clock the next day, and out at seven sharp to make it to an event in Strone at nine, so he didn't see Eowyn at breakfast at all.

As strange as it seemed, he actually missed their Monday morning, catch up chat. She would probably have used it to verbally punch him as much as she could, but even that was becoming fun. He was learning to give as good as he got. Sometimes even better.

He called her at five o'clock. "Are you free right now?" he said.

"For the next twenty minutes, yes. I'm heading out at six-thirty, I'll need at least an hour to get changed."

He didn't doubt it, given how intricate her evening outfits and hairstyles were. "Any chance you could come along to my office? There's something important I want to talk to you about."

"Does it have anything to do with who you're going to marry?"

She must have a pile of well-gnawed bones the size of the Starkhorn under her bed. "Sorry. Afraid not, no."

Silence while she decided. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

He pressed the button for Algrin's office, made the same request to him. No snarky comment about his marital status here—just a promise to be there as soon as he could.

His guests arrived at more or less the same time, Algrin politely holding the door to wave Eowyn in ahead.

"Come in, have a seat, please," Eomer said, pointing to his visitor chairs.

Ever the chivalrous gentleman, Algrin held a chair for Eowyn before claiming the other one for himself.

"This seems worrying," Eowyn said.

Eomer sighed. "Actually, I think it might be."

"I assume since I'm here, that it's a security matter, sir?" Algrin asked.

"It is, yes." Eomer took a deep breath, trying to decide where to start, and how to share Seorsa's concerns without revealing he'd gone to see her the night before. If it was only Algrin, he would be more direct, but not with Eowyn in the room. He brought his personal tablet out of his drawer. "Last night, I received these photos," he said, laying the tablet in front of his guests.

Eowyn angled her head. "These look like pages from someone's personal planner."

"That's exactly what they are."

"May I ask, whose planner, sir?" said Algrin.

"The Earl of Camelor's."

Algrin's eyes went wide in alarm. "Your Majesty, I'm not sure this is entirely proper."

"It's not even _slightly_ proper." Eomer raised his hand. "But hold your objections until I explain what's going on. You see the first photo, where the description says 'TC', for a meeting on April 17th?"

"Yes?" Eowyn said.

"We think the 'TC' stands for Thenwis Colafell."

" _We_?" Eowyn repeated.

Dammit. She was as sharp as ever. "Me and the person who supplied the photos."

"And who was that person?" she inevitably wanted to know.

"Let's not get into that right now." He reached over to swipe the tablet to the next image. "If you look at the next photo, you'll see the earl met with the Countess of Keveleok the following day, on April 18th." He swiped to the third. "And if TC does mean Thenwis Colafell, he's meeting with her again this week."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, there's nothing illegal about these meetings," Algrin said. "This is all completely above board."

Eowyn shook her head to disagree. "They're scheming, Algrin. Camelor and Keveleok have decided to support Thenwis's bid for the throne."

Algrin's smile was scrupulously polite. "I would hardly call it a bid for the throne, Your Highness. If Miss Colafell does lodge a petition, which she hasn't as yet, from what I've heard, it would be to have her succession rights restored. I'm no constitutional expert, so please correct me if I'm wrong, but that's an entirely different matter altogether from asking the government to dethrone His Majesty in her favour."

Eomer nodded. "Algrin's right. There's nothing illegal about these meetings. Camelor and Keveleok are perfectly entitled to do whatever it is they're doing."

Eowyn flapped her hands. "Then, why on earth are you showing us these photos?"

"Because the person who provided these photos is someone very close to the Earl. Someone who knows him well enough to think he's in this for personal gain, and that he intends to make good on that gain, whatever it takes."

"The Earl _is_ an extremely ambitious man, Your Majesty," Algrin pointed out. "And he's not usually one for supporting lost causes."

"Yes, that was precisely the point the C—the provider of these photos made. They're concerned the Earl may be willing to step out of bounds, and to go so far as to use illegal means to get what he wants."

Eowyn frowned. "What kind of illegal means?"

"It could be as simple as tapping a phone or watching someone's house. It could be as severe as organizing a coup, or paying someone to assassinate me. I have absolutely no idea."

"Your Majesty, as the head of your security team, I feel it's my duty to warn you, that's an _extremely_ serious allegation to make," Algrin quietly said. "Bordering on defamatory."

"I know it is, Algrin. And I'm not saying that's what the Earl is actually planning to do. For all I know, he could have no harmful intentions at all."

Eowyn swiped through the three photos again. "But the person you spoke to, what they told you was enough to make you nervous?"

"It was enough to make _them_ nervous, and they're the one who really knows him."

Algrin sighed. "I can tighten security at the Palace, sir, and I can speak to Fastmer, ask him to tighten your personal protection as well, but I don't have a legal basis to go to the police, or to request any kind of surveillance. The Earl hasn't done anything wrong."

"I know he hasn't. And I'm not asking for police surveillance. I just want both of you to know he might be up to no good. If you hear _anything_ that involves his name, anything at all, even someone describing how he parted his hair, or what new suit he wore to the office, I want you to pay attention to it."

"Understood, sir," said Algrin, nodding. "I'll put some information gathering procedures in place, make sure my top people know what to listen and look out for."

Eowyn added, "Only your top people, though. We can't make too much noise about this. The Earl's a resourceful man, with extremely deep pockets. I wouldn't put it past him to have developed eyes and ears in the Palace."

"We do our best to keep them out, ma'am," Algrin said in an apologetic tone.

"We know you do," Eomer said. "But when people have money to spend, and those people want to know what's going on behind closed doors, it's almost a given they'll find their way in."

"The meeting this week with Thenwis," Eowyn said, tapping on the third photo. "Can we keep an eye on that?"

Algrin grimaced and shifted in his seat. "Not legally, Your Highness, no."

"Can we at least have someone follow him if he goes out, take a note of the location and length of the meeting?" she suggested next.

Eomer liked the sound of that. "That's not illegal, is it? To just watch where somebody goes?"

"No, sir. It isn't." But Algrin still looked troubled, as if he found the whole thing distasteful. Which was understandable—he was one of the best security people in the whole kingdom, but he was also a man of honesty and honour.

"Is there anyone in your team who could do it without being seen?" Eomer asked. "And that you completely trust?"

"I think I have just the man." Algrin smiled. "Or should I say, just the woman."

Eomer took the tablet back to put it away. "I'll leave it with you, then. Check where Camelor and Thenwis meet, and how long they meet for, but leave it at that. He might not worry about staying on the right side of the law, but we absolutely should."

"Your Majesty, it relieves me no end to hear you say that," said Algrin.

Eomer pushed up from his chair, signalling the meeting was done.

Algrin rose, giving a deferential nod. "Leave this with me for now, sir. I'll follow up, report back when I have anything new to tell you."

"Perfect. Thank you."

With a polite nod to Eowyn, Algrin let himself out, gently closing the door behind him.

Once he was gone, Eowyn said, "Bad enough we have to worry about what Thenwis and granna are doing. Now, we know for sure she's up to no good with the Earl of Camelor as well?"

"She's achieved a lot for being only twenty, hasn't she? If she wasn't causing us so much trouble, we could almost feel proud of being related to her."

"Do I even want to know, who it was who gave you the photos?" Eowyn asked in a weary tone.

Eomer shook his head. "Best not to ask, I think."

"It was Seorsa Camelor, wasn't it?"

"If I said 'yes', would you be angry with me?"

"That depends. Where and how did she supply them?"

"She emailed them to me." Technically, not a lie.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're lying again. I can almost _smell_ it."

"Am not."

She turned her glare to the 'instant death' setting. And ten seconds was all he could take. Sauron Aleswind apparently had such a good glare, his enemies had a nickname for it, but Eomer reckoned even the Eye of Sauron couldn't match his baby sister for intensity and intimidation.

Bracing himself, Eomer said, "She _might_ have shown them to me first."

"When?"

"Recently."

" _When_ , Eomer?"

"Last night. On the way home from the Folca Cup Final."

"You went to her _house_?"

"Briefly, yes."

The instant death glare came on again. "How briefly?"

"Not long."

"How long?"

Was it just him, or was it suddenly really warm in his office? "I don't remember. Maybe a couple of hours?"

"You went there to sleep with her, didn't you?" Before he could answer, she held up a hand. "Sorry, let me restate that. You went there to _have sex_ with her. You went to her house to look at those photos, and the two of you ended up in bed together."

"More or less, yes." She probably wouldn't want to know, it had actually been the other way round.

"You promised me," she said in a deathly-calm voice. "The morning after the RAFTAs, you looked me straight in the eye and told me there wouldn't be any more of your little visits."

"She didn't come to the Palace, so technically, there wasn't."

She grabbed a metal ruler from his desk, stood up and started to thrash him with it.

He stumbled away, raising his hands to fend her off. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" he shouted. "Eowyn, stop, please!"

To no avail—the rain of stinging blows continued. And Mother of Bema, they _really_ hurt. He winced as a particularly well-aimed blow caught him on the top of his ear.

His office door exploded open, and Fastmer rushed in, eyes searching, shoulders hunched, a tiny weapon clasped in his hand, ready to shoot first, shoot again, and once he was sure everyone was dead, maybe ask a few questions later.

Eowyn's arm froze mid-thrash.

Bema save him. The gossipmongers in the Palace were going to have a field day tonight…

Fastmer blinked, jerked up into full parade rest, cleared his throat and gave them both a respectful nod. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I thought you were under attack."

He had been. Just not in the way Fastmer assumed…

Eomer smoothed the rumples out of his shirt. "It's fine, Fastmer, thank you. There's no danger. Sorry if we gave you a fright."

Eowyn glared at him again, but surrendered her 'weapon', throwing it back onto his desk.

Fastmer nodded curtly again. "Of course, sir," he said, and withdrew.

"You promised me you wouldn't do this," Eowyn said, dead calm and ice cold.

And now he felt like total shit. "I know I did. And I'm sorry. I didn't meant to. It just sort of happened."

She snorted. "Of course it did. Seorsa slipped, all her clothes fell off, and she somehow impaled herself on your penis."

Impaled, yes. Given what position they'd used, that was actually a good way to put it…

"It won't happen again," Eomer promised. "I give you my word."

"That's what you told me five weeks ago, when I almost caught you in the act with Gwenna Freebourn."

"I mean it this time. Really."

She wielded a finger at him. "One more chance, you understand? You do this again, you won't have to worry about the Earl of Camelor paying for spies, because I'll go to the tabloids myself, sell them every sordid secret I know."

And, boy, some of them were _pretty_ sordid…

"You know as well as I do, you would never do that."

"Don't tempt me," she said. "Just remember, if the people of Rohan decide to dethrone you because they've had enough of your shit, it's not Thenwis who'll replace you." She tapped her thumb to her chest. "It's _me_."

"But you don't want to be Queen."

"Of course I bloody don't. But I'll take the throne if I have to." She turned to leave. "Unlike you, _I_ know what my duty is."


	28. Chapter 28

**Tuesday May 19, 2020**

Eomer jumped as Eowyn stormed into his office.

"Bema, Wynna, would it kill you to knock?" As he spoke, he checked to see where his ruler was.

She dropped a document on his desk. "I need you to review this, please."

"Good morning, how are you, I'm very well, thank you for asking."

"I'm busy, Eomer," she said, tightly crossing her arms. "I don't have time for social pleasantries today."

She was still angry with him, then. And probably would be, for a while yet. Not that he could really blame her. Sometimes, he made things awfully difficult for her. He really needed to work on that, learn to be as good a brother to her as she was a sister to him.

The document was a list of names. "What's this?" he asked, waving it at her.

" _This_ is the top-up guest list for the Midsummer party. The people we're inviting now because others have replied to decline, so we have some room to add them."

"I thought you were taking care of the invites for me?"

"I _am_ taking care of them for you. I've organized everything for the party from who's attending to what kind of appetizers we're serving. All I want now is for you to read and approve the top-up names. Or is that too much for your feeble royal brain to manage?"

Her bad mood might last more than 'a while'…

He scanned down the list of names. All people he knew (more or less), and nobody he really disliked or would ever be tempted to punch. And speaking of punching—a pair of names under 'H' jumped out. "You're inviting Erland Hamelmark as well?" he said.

"It's cover," Eowyn explained. "It might look a little unsubtle if Lady Solwen's the only one I invite. Plus, she's more likely to come if I invite her older brother as well. They're apparently quite close. If I just invite her, she'll probably just decline."

"Makes sense." And who the _hell_ had she been talking to, to learn the 'quite close' part? It wasn't as if either of them knew the siblings in any great depth.

"It'll be interesting to meet them again," Eowyn said. "We haven't seen either of them since their father's confirmation."

He should probably tell her about his meeting with Solwen in the garage. She might already know they had talked, and be using that line as a test. It was the kind of underhand ruse his sister would pull.

If she _did_ know he and Solwen had met, and he kept his mouth shut…

What was that saying Colwenna liked? If you can't provide honesty, don't expect loyalty. That was the one.

"I actually met her," Eomer said. "Lady Solwen, I mean."

Eowyn nodded. "At her father's confirmation, yes."

She hadn't known about the meeting, then; she must not have eyes and ears in the garage. "This week, I mean."

"Really?"

He nodded. "On Sunday. Down in the garage."

"What on earth was Solwen Hamelmark doing in the garage?"

"Brendal was helping her with a motorbike problem. I'd gone down to ask him to look at something on the Firefoot for me. When I arrived, she was there."

"I hope he followed the proper security procedures."

Eomer hadn't thought about that. "He must have. He wouldn't have gotten her through the security check at the gate if he hadn't."

"I assume she didn't threaten to punch you?"

"On the contrary, she was scrupulously polite." Or, what passed for polite for a Marcher. "There wasn't even a _hint_ of a fist."

"So, if Brendal was helping her with a motorbike issue, does that mean she rides?"

"It does."

"That's quite interesting, isn't it?" she said.

"I suppose so, yes."

She peered at him for a few seconds, probably trying to decide if he was lying to her again. "What did you think of her?"

He shrugged. "She seemed nice enough. Attractive, but not an out-and-out beauty. Funny, but not vulgar. Polite, but not fawning."

"She's a Marcher. They don't really do fawning."

"I noticed that, yes."

"I assume that's how she knows Brendal. Isn't he's from Isendale as well?"

"It's even better than that. Did you know, Brendal and the Hamelmarks are related?"

"Really?"

"Apparently, he and the Earl are third cousins."

"I had no idea Brendal was so well-connected."

"Think it's less about Brendal being well-connected, and more about the Hamelmarks not. They haven't married a lot with the other Landed houses, they tend to marry foreigners or commoners instead." Or, in the late Countess's case, someone from one of the clans. "It's not surprising the Earl's more closely related to my bike mechanic than he is to me."

She pointed at the list. "So, no problems with who I've invited?"

He quickly scanned the list again. "You've added the Countess of Camelor. That's awfully generous of you." Or, maybe she wanted to give Seorsa an earful about their Sunday-night 'meeting' as well.

"I didn't want to invite her, but Fenbrand reminded me she's the patron of one of the charities the party's raising funds for." Her glare came out again. "You remember, the one you had that 'dinner' with her to discuss?"

Their 'dinner', of course. One of the most pleasant 'meals' he'd ever had. "But no other Camelors, I assume?"

"Of course not."

"What about the Colafells?"

"They were in the first round of invites, but they haven't responded yet." She shrugged. "It might depend on what happens at your birthday party. If you and Thenwis get into a screaming match there, she'll probably decide to give the Midsummer party a miss."

Eomer handed the document back. "This all looks good. Let's get the invites written up and sent out."

"We'll probably have some more additions next week."

"As long as it's not Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, I don't really care."

Eowyn huffed. "Eomer, if there's one thing I can say for sure, it's that Lothiriel of Dol Amroth will _never_ set foot in one of our parties."


	29. Chapter 29

**Wednesday May 20, 2020**

"You said you were going to come up with a plan," said Elphir, almost accusing.

Imrahil gestured at the document in his eldest son's hand. "Does this not seem like a plan to you?"

"You're just adding Lothiriel's name to our final attendance list for the banquet." Elphir wrinkled his nose. "How on _earth_ is that a plan?"

"What would you rather I do?"

"I'm not entirely sure. But something more effective than _this_."

Elphir had obviously never heard the expression—before you tell someone else how to do their job, make sure you actually know how to do it yourself…

"They won't be happy," Elphir warned. "The Rohanese, I mean. They'll take one look at this list, start phoning people all over the place, demanding we leave Thiri at home. If they make enough noise, it'll end up in King Aragorn's lap."

And nobody wanted that. "Which is why I've also written this letter," Imrahil said, holding out a second piece of paper. "To persuade King Eomer's people we have entirely honourable intentions."

Frowning, Elphir took the letter from him. As he scanned it, his frown relaxed. "Actually, this might just work."

"Thank you, Elphir. So very kind of you to say that," Imrahil drily remarked.

Elphir smiled. "It's beautifully worded. You write this type of letter far better than I ever will. It's an art I haven't quite mastered yet."

An art, yes. That was a good way to describe it. And this had been one of his most demanding pieces by far. He'd spent almost three hours on the damn thing, trying to precisely convey how Lothiriel felt, and what she wanted to come to Rohan to do, but in an appropriately tactful number of words, with all correct forms and protocol observed.

"I think it should do the trick," Imrahil said. "They'll know she's coming with us, but to _fix_ a problem, not to cause one."

Elphir sighed and shook his head. "Do you know, I actually thought you were just going to lie?"

"You thought I was going to take Lothiriel with us, but without telling anyone first, just turn up in Edoras with her out of the blue, didn't you?"

Shame-faced, Elphir nodded.

Imrahil had actually considered it, for maybe all of ten minutes. "Elphir, have you ever heard the Rohirric proverb about lies and lying?"

Elphir shook his head.

"The men of the Mark do not lie, and therefore they are not easily deceived," Imrahil quoted. "It's one of their oldest proverbs, attributed to one of their pre-literate era kings, and while I'm not entirely sure either half of the proverb is true, or that one half necessarily leads to the other, I appreciate the message it's trying to convey."

"Which is?"

"That lying never earns you friends. Especially in the Horse Lord's Court. If I tell King Eomer a lie, even a harmless lie of omission, told with the best of intentions, I will destroy any trust he might still be willing to show us." He reached out to take the letter back. "And Eru knows, the last thing we want is to cause undue tension between our two Courts, especially not in the run-up to the oath celebrations. We've been friends and allies for five hundred years. I'm not willing to put that relationship at risk." Or the friendship between the two kings. If he damaged that, by either action or inaction, he could kiss goodbye to his own political standing in Minas Tirith.

He should also tell Aragorn what he was doing. It wouldn't do to lie to his own King any more than it would to lie to Rohan's. He was heading to Minas Tirith on Monday—he would raise the matter with His Majesty then.

"Do you think Eomer will accept it?" Elphir asked. "The letter I mean?"

"I hope so." He placed the letter on the desk; he would have his secretary write it up for him and send it to Edoras today. "But all we can do is wait and see what he says."

"We should probably have done this a long time ago. Arranged for Thiri to apologize to him, I mean."

"We should have, yes." But for one reason or another, they hadn't. "But best not to dwell on what we can't change. The important thing is, we're doing it now."

Elphir smiled. "Better late than never, right?"


	30. Chapter 30

**Thursday May 21, 2020**

Eomer knew one thing for sure—his next audience with the Prime Minister was going to be worth getting out of bed for.

If only because, right now, he wasn't entirely sure who that Prime Minister would be.

The exit polls had said Harbrand should win, but as tonight's election results were proving, 'should' and 'would' were sometimes two different things. He just hoped the results from the March weren't setting the mood for the night. So far, those were nothing short of a total disaster.

Eowyn strolled in, wearing a glittering, full-length dress with a matching, short-cut, high-collared jacket. She was dripping in jewels, and her hair was up in an intricate 'do', but she wasn't wearing a tiara, so it must not have been a white tie event.

"You look lovely tonight," he said. "For something fun, I hope?"

She actually smiled; her foul mood was finally thawing. "Thank you, you're very sweet. And it was for the reception to welcome all the new Lords Lieutenant into their posts."

"Not sure why we even have them. Lords Lieutenant, I mean. Not the welcoming receptions." Although, sometimes, he could do without the stuffy receptions as well.

"They do seem a bit anachronistic, yes. But you know what they say. One man's dusty anachronism is another man's time-honoured tradition." She gestured at the television. "Is this the election results?"

He nodded. "A bunch of results have come in already." In theory, he shouldn't even be watching, but it wasn't as if anyone except her would know.

She pointed at his bottle of wine, sitting on the coffee table. "Is there any of that left?"

"Plenty, yes." As much as he liked his red wine, not even he could drink a whole bottle in one sitting. He went to the sideboard to grab a glass, filled it and handed it to her.

"Thank you." Pausing to kick off her heels, she claimed the corner seat of her couch. "So, how's it looking so far?"

"For Harbrand? To be honest, not terribly good."

"She's not in danger of losing, is she?"

"I don't think so, but so far, she hasn't gained as many new seats as the polls were predicting. She's probably going to be re-elected, but it won't be the out-and-out victory she was hoping for. She might actually end a few seats down."

"Anything we should be worried about? Any sweeping wins for the PRP?"

"Nothing so far for the Peeps, no." He wasn't surprised—the poll in The Times a few weeks ago had shown there was no real support for republicanism. "But the situation up in the March is grim. They've only declared for six of the region's twelve seats, and the MNP has taken all of them so far."

" _All_ of them?" Eowyn asked, alarmed.

He held a finger to his lips, grabbed the remote to turn up the volume. "Here's the next one. For the Isen Valley riding."

They watched in fascinated horror as the returning officer for the riding declared another MNP win. And not a tiny win, either. A good, solid, respectable win.

"Eomer, this could be a serious problem."

He shrugged. "Not for me, it won't."

"What do you mean, not for you?" She waved at the television. "If this gathers steam, it could end with calls for the March to separate from the rest of Rohan."

"Wynna, I don't mean it wouldn't bother me. Of _course_ it would. What I mean is, there's bugger all I can do about it. This is a political problem. Other than to go on TV and say how much I love my whole kingdom, legally, I can't get involved. Harbrand will have to solve this problem herself."

Eowyn swirled her wine. "Bet she's having second thoughts about calling the election now."

"Probably wishing she hadn't bothered." But that was politics for you—on top of the world one week, scrambling in the gutter the next. It made him glad he was only the King.

"Wonder how the Hamelmarks are feeling."

Or Brendal. Or Nedris and Vonnal. "Good question. No idea."

For the seventh time that night, Duncan Hamelmark punched his fist in the air. "Fucking _yes_ ," he hissed.

Across the room, the Earl of Amerwen whooped and clapped.

Solwen looked from one half-cut earl to the other, trying to decide which one she wanted to shout at first. She raised an incredulous brow at Erland, who shrugged and went back to his book.

"Why the hell are you both so pleased the MNP's winning all the March seats?" she said. "Since when do either of you want the March to become an independent country?"

"We don't," her father said. "We've always been Rohanese, and we'll always want to be Rohanese, but this will force the stuck up bastards in Edoras to stop treating the March like some rustic backwater they'd rather ignore."

Jonrick Amerwen added, "Except when it comes to our tax payments, of course. They always seem happy enough to take those from us."

"Exactly."

She couldn't deny they made a good point. She'd been born and raised in the March, but had gone to Second School in Edoras, so she'd heard all the anti-March sentiment she ever wanted to hear. But this didn't seem like the best solution to her. The MNP were pretty extreme. And not necessarily interested in helping regular Marchers any more than the stuck up bastards here in Edoras were.

"She's still going to win," she pointed out. "Harbrand, I mean."

"I hope so," her father said. "She'll be the easiest of the lot to deal with. She's a fairly sensible woman."

"You told me she was a snake."

Jonrick chuckled. "She's a politician, Solly. Of course she's a snake."

"But you're both politicians as well."

"Aye, just by inheritance, though. Not by deliberate choice."

That was some bullshit Landed logic right there. "Like that makes it any better."

"Course it does," her father said. "It's like choosing to support a team, instead of supporting a team because it's what your family raised you to do."

Bema. That was her family to a 't'—if they couldn't make a political point without referring to football, the point probably wasn't worth making at all.

"And there's something else you're forgetting," her father added.

"What's that?" Solwen asked.

He winked at her. "I never said I wasn't a snake."

"You certainly know how to slither out of tight corners," she said.

Without looking up from his book, Erland murmured, "And you _are_ a bit of a cold-blooded asshole."

Their father clasped his hand to his heart. "Stop, please. All this love, you kids are making me cry."

The phone started to ring.

"Who the fuck's calling at this time of night?" Jonrick asked, checking his watch.

"I'll get it," Nediriel called out from the sitting room next door. She never watched election results; politics wasn't really her thing. Or, rather, the shouting and squabbles that came with it weren't.

Erland sighed and turned a page. "Ten quid says Astalor's lost his security pass again."

Solwen snickered. "He'll be down at the lower gate, trying to persuade the Citadel Guard he's not here to murder the King."

"Wouldn't be worth it," Jonrick said. "Murdering the King, I mean."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because there's always another one in the wings. If there's one thing Kings tend to be really good at, it's breeding."

"Ours isn't," her father said. "He's doing all of the bloody practice, but none of the actual making babies part."

"To be fair, it's the practice that's fun," Solwen pointed out.

Nediriel appeared at the door. "Duncan, it's for you," she said.

"It's not the Prime Minister, is it?" her father said. "Suddenly needing a house-trained Marcher to help her figure out what to do?"

'House-trained' wouldn't be the word Solwen would use…

"It's not the Prime Minister, no," Nediriel crossed her arms and leaned on the door. "It's the Deputy Prime Minister."

Her father sat up so hard and so fast he spilled his beer all over his shirt. "You're kidding," he said,

Nediriel sighed. "I think I'm going to end up wishing I was."

"Seriously?" Solwen asked. "Holger Selgreve is calling _here_?"

Nediriel nodded. "He certainly is."

Her father stood up, wiping beer from the front of his shirt. "I'll take it in my office." Pausing to set his beer down, he jogged to the room at the end of the hall.

"I hope he cleaned his arse this morning," Jonrick said once her father was gone.

"Why's that?" Solwen asked.

"Because I think someone's about to kiss it."


	31. Chapter 31

**Friday May 22, 2020**

At one o'clock on the dot, the phone on his desk started to ring, a green light blinking next to line two.

Right on time. In that regard, if nothing else, Rowena Harbrand was true to her word.

Eomer held a finger in front of his lips, asking Fenbrand for silence, and pressed the button beside the line to answer the call in hands-free mode. As the process required, he spoke first. "Miss Harbrand, good morning, this is the King." He didn't address her by her job title—technically, she wasn't yet the Prime Minister again.

"Your Majesty, good morning. Please accept my apologies for not being able to call you at nine o'clock. As I'm sure you can imagine, it's been an extremely chaotic night."

"I'm sure it has. May I congratulate you on your re-election?" He didn't say—but not for finishing the election with twelve seats fewer than she went in—she would be painfully aware of that horrendous fuck-up already. He wouldn't be at all surprised if a no-confidence motion was already brewing. Might the lovely Miss Farradale's mother be Prime Minister by the end of the year?

"Thank you, sir. You're very kind."

"Miss Harbrand, are you able to form a government for me?" Eomer asked, ticking the next box on the procedures checklist.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I'm delighted to say that I am." She let out a small sigh. "It was touch and go there for a few hours, but we finished with a small majority, so you'll be pleased to know, no coalition will be required."

"I'm sure that keeps things nice and simple for you."

"It does, sir, yes."

"I believe the next step is to reconvene Parliament, then," he prompted.

Harbrand took a deep breath. "Your Majesty, on behalf of the government of the Kingdom of Rohan, I formally invite you to open the thirty-third session of Parliament, in the presence of the Commons and Lords, on the morning of Thursday the Fourth of June."

Just as Fenbrand had predicted. "Prime Minister, on behalf of the people of the Kingdom of Rohan, I formally accept your invitation."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Now the official part of the process was done. "I assume someone on your staff will prepare my speech from the throne?"

"Of course, sir. We'll send it over by end of day the Monday before. I know you like to have time to familiarize yourself with it."

Fenbrand opened his leather folder to scribble some notes.

"Can I ask, will there be anything interesting or controversial in it?" Eomer asked. Not that he could do anything about it if there was—he just liked to know in advance, in case a blandly official comment from the Palace was needed.

"One thing, Your Majesty, yes. After consulting with my Cabinet this morning, I've decided the speech from the throne will announce an investment and stimulus package for the March."

Fenbrand's pen got busy again.

Eomer wasn't surprised. The results in the March had been an absolute bloody disaster. In the end, only the Upper Isendale seat—the most affluent and most urban of the twelve March ridings—hadn't been claimed by the MNP. But even that one hadn't been won by Harbrand's party. The voters' message had been loud and clear—govern us better, or we'll give the lot of you the boot and find a way to govern ourselves. "I think in light of last night's results, that's an excellent idea."

"We obviously don't have any details to share with you just yet, but we've already reached out to some organizations and people to open dialogue on how best to proceed, so we should have something to put in your speech." Harbrand breathed a quiet sigh. "Our main challenge at the moment is figuring out who in the government should be involved. Ideally, our initiative would include an elected MP from the region, but that's obviously going to be rather tricky, given how the vote went."

'Rather tricky'. Bema. That was the understatement of the year. "I look forward to seeing what your initiative brings," Eomer kept himself to saying. Which was Fenbrand-worthy political speak for 'you better damn well deliver something'.

"We all do, sir."

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to assist."

"Actually, sir, now you raise the matter, there is."

"And what's that?"

Harbrand cleared her throat. "Your Majesty, my Cabinet and I believe it would be quite helpful if you could spend more time in the March."

A sensible suggestion—a little more royal attention might keep some of the worst feelings of alienation at bay—but one that came with its own risks. "Prime Minister, I'm more than happy to do what I can, but I have to remind you, I can't explicitly favour one region of the kingdom over another." Not even when that favour was to right another, historical wrong. "I can add a few more engagements, but not as many as you'd probably like."

"We're aware of that, Your Majesty. All we ask is that you help however you can."

"I'll have my people here look into it for me."

"Thank you, sir."

Silence on the other end—there was nothing else Harbrand wanted to say, but protocol said she couldn't hang up on him. And there was one final thing he needed to cover. "Prime Minister, would you please join me for an audience at the Meduseld Palace, at ten o'clock on Tuesday the Ninth of June?" Back to the usual weekly routine, but only after Parliament had convened. At least with Harbrand, he knew what to expect. And Bregdan already knew what kind of biscuits she took with her tea.

"Of course, sir. As always, I would be honoured."

Honoured. Sure. Of course she was…

"Thank you. We'll talk more about your economic initiative then." He pressed the button to cut off the call. Slowly letting out a breath, he leaned back in his chair. "Well, Fenbrand, what did you make of all that?"

"Rather interesting, sir." Which Eomer thought was Fenbrand-speak for 'I have absolutely no bloody idea'.

"Do you think we can accommodate her request? To spend more time in the March, I mean?"

"It'll be difficult, sir," Fenbrand advised. "My team knows how important it is to avoid accusations of favouritism. We're diligent about spreading your time equally across all ten districts."

Eomer didn't doubt it. "And how long would it be before we could make any practical change?" His schedule was arranged months in advance—he probably wouldn't have room to set up anything new until at least the end of the summer.

"We always have room for the odd, last-minute engagement here or there, but you won't have any significant capacity until the end of September, sir."

"So, no easy way to spend some time in the March over the summer months, then."

"No, sir. I'm afraid not." Fenbrand frowned and pursed his lips. "Unless…"

"Unless, what?"

"Unless you wanted to consider going there for your Midsummer break, sir."

"We always spend Midsummer in Aldburg." At his and Eowyn's childhood home, which more or less sat empty for the rest of the year. "And we don't have a property in the March. Or staff there to help us. Or local suppliers." Or a hundred-and-one other things they would need, even for a three week trip.

"It would need some careful planning, sir, yes. But nothing the Household couldn't do if it put its mind to it."

Eomer already knew what his sister would say—Eowyn _loved_ their Aldburg break, reminded him at least twice a year that she would live there instead of here if she could. There was absolutely no way she would agree to spend the time in the March instead.

But here was an interesting thought.

There was nothing to say he and Eowyn had to spend the Midsummer break together.

This could actually be a good thing. Earn some brownie points with Harbrand, show the March how much he cared, and more to the point, escape from his sister for most of July? And not just his sister. If he arranged it right, chose a small enough house as his base, kept his entourage to a minimum size, pretty much the whole Household as well?

The one important question was where. Isendale was the obvious choice. It was the region's largest and wealthiest city, so most likely to have the kind of house he would need—small enough that he wouldn't need to take many people, but large enough to be easy to guard.

Hmm.

"Let me think about it some more," he said. "But just in case, could you have your team look into some properties in Isendale for me?"

Fenbrand blinked in surprise; that obviously wasn't the answer he'd been expecting to hear. "Of course, sir. I'll have Theorick and Gleddis contact our usual people tomorrow."

"Perfect, thank you."

Fenbrand closed his folder over. "Is there anything else you need from me today, sir?"

"Nothing that I can think of right now."

Fenbrand rose from his chair. "Then, if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to go back to my office, gather my team, start making some provisional plans." He smiled politely. "Just to be ready, you understand."

Just to be ready. That could almost be Fenbrand's family motto. "Not at all. Go right ahead."

"Thank you, sir." Pausing to give a quick bow, Fenbrand withdrew as silently as he'd arrived.

Eomer leaned back in his chair, thinking more about the idea.

He could take Elfhelm with him. And maybe even Brendal as well—as a native-born Marcher, he would know all the region's best riding roads. Probably not Colwenna, though. She would go, if he asked her to, but she might prefer to stay here, have some quiet time in the Palace instead. It would only be for three weeks; one of the footmen could fill in for her. He wouldn't be going to any parades or white tie events, or hosting any formal dinners.

Three whole glorious weeks to himself. No Eowyn, no Colwenna, no Thenwis, no Keveleok, no Camelor of any kind. Not even The Edoras Times—he could go native for the duration, read The Isendale Herald instead.

It would be something different, for sure. But wasn't a change as good as a rest?


	32. Chapter 32

**Saturday May 23, 2020**

Eomer reached for the rook.

Eowyn winced. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

She could wince all she wanted; he wasn't falling for her psychological bullshit again. He placed his finger on the rook and carefully slid it across the board, right into one of her pawns.

He knew as soon as she smiled how much of an error he'd made. He watched in dismay as her queen slid in to claim his rook. Bema save him. He'd been so busy watching her knight and her druid, he hadn't noticed what line her queen was on. He should give up now. He would never win; he never did.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," she said.

He hunched forward over the board, thinking furiously, trying to map out moves in his head. But it wouldn't matter. No matter how many moves he designed, no matter what strategy he selected, she would always find a way through them. She was just too good.

A knock on the door provided relief.

She gave him a suspicious glare. "Did you pre-arrange for someone to interrupt us again?"

"Not this time, no." But he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He would happily take the interruption, even if it was Fenbrand come to tell him the Hall of Lords had just voted to make the Earl of Camelor King. Maybe Rogen Camelor could beat his sister at chess.

"Come in," he called out.

The door swung open and Algrin appeared. "Good morning, sir. Your Highness," he added, aiming a respectful nod in Eowyn's direction.

"Good morning, Algrin," Eowyn said. "Have you come to rescue His Majesty from another sound thrashing?"

At least it was only a chess-based thrashing today…

"Sadly, no, I'm afraid not." Algrin's smile was apologetic. "I would offer to help you, sir, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at chess."

Eowyn shrugged. "Neither is the King, it seems."

"Was there something you wanted to discuss?" Eomer said. He remembered then, the mission he'd given to Algrin on Monday. "Do you have an update on that sensitive matter for us?"

"I do, sir, yes."

He waved Algrin in, gestured for him to close the door. "What did your person turn up?"

Algrin sighed. "Unfortunately, sir, not much. If there _was_ a meeting, it wasn't in person. Neither the Earl or Miss Colafell went anywhere near each other all day. It's possible they spoke on the phone, or that they rearranged to another time."

Dammit. This wasn't what he wanted to hear. Not that Thenwis and the Earl were breaking the law by meeting or talking, but he would feel much better if he knew for certain what they were meeting for or talking about.

"My apologies, sir," Algrin said. "I know you wanted a result."

Eomer waved him away. "No apologies necessary, Algrin. Your people did what they could. Sometimes, a situation just doesn't work out the way we want."

"Indeed, sir." Algrin smiled. "In life as much as in chess, it seems." He nodded at each of them in turn and quietly let himself out.

Once he was gone, Eowyn asked, "Do you think they knew?"

"Sorry?"

"The Earl and Thenwis. Do you think they knew they were being watched?"

"Algrin's people are all ex-intelligence service. They all know how to monitor someone without being spotted. I think it's far more likely the Earl and Thenwis just spoke on the phone instead of in person."

"So, you don't think we have a spy?"

"A spy? _Here_?"

Eowyn nodded. "Somewhere in the Palace, yes."

He didn't know what to say that. He was quite sure the Earl had developed a source inside the Palace, but a source and a spy were two different things. "What on earth makes you think that?"

"Nothing in particular. It's just, sometimes, the stories the tabloids print, it makes me wonder who's listening in."

Eomer snorted. "In my experience, it's usually you."

She rolled her eyes. "Apart from me."

"I don't think it's anything to worry about. But if it's troubling you, feel free to dig." He picked up his knight to jump it over her rook. "If anyone can find them, it's you."


	33. Chapter 33

**Sunday May 24, 2020**

Eomer touched his finger to the intercom button, opening a channel to the rest of the group. "Vonnal, could you please ride on ahead, check how busy the car park at the bridge is? If it's quiet enough, I'd like to pull in."

In his left ear, Elfhelm snickered. "Did His Blessed Majesty drink too much coffee at breakfast again?"

Just for once, could Elfhelm remember who else besides them was listening in? At least it was only his guards, and not a radio or TV channel. "Yes, Elfhelm, His Blessed Majesty bloody well did. There's a bathroom block in the car park, I think. And it'll give us a chance to stretch our legs before we head back."

"No problem, sir," said Vonnal. "Let me ride on ahead. If it's all clear, I'll wave you in. Nedris, when I'm gone, move up to lead at the front."

"Aye, sir," said Nedris.

Ahead of them, Vonnal twisted his throttle and roared away. A few seconds later, Nedris flew past them to lead the way at the front of the group, leaving Dernbrand as the sole rider behind.

As they moved through a series of curves, Eomer pulled ahead slightly, giving Elfhelm plenty of space. His friend wasn't the tidiest rider in the world—he tended to wobble and weave all over the place, especially when he was leaning. A swooping bend around a large hill brought them to the Snowbourn Bridge. Ahead, he could see Vonnal waving—his signal the car park was safe.

Thank Bema. He could probably make it back to the Palace without a stop, but it wouldn't be a comfortable ride. At least he wasn't riding the Firefoot today. If he'd been on that bladder-killer, he would had to have stopped a few miles ago and jumped behind some random bushes.

One by one, with Nedris leading, they checked their mirrors, indicated and slowed enough to pull off the road. Eomer was glad the car park was paved—Elfhelm and gravel had never been friends.

Vonnal waved them in to where he'd parked up, as always, in a part of the car park with nobody in it. Not that the turnout was busy. Which was surprising, given how popular the river valley route was.

Eomer parked up beside Vonnal, swung off the bike and pulled off his helmet and gloves. He was making a beeline for the bathroom block when Vonnal stepped in, raising a hand to warn him away. "Just let me check it first, sir." He was in and out in ten seconds. "All clear," he said with a quick nod.

Eomer was in and out in a minute himself, vowing to never have three cups of coffee with breakfast again. But only his guards were with the bikes; there was no sign of his best friend. He glanced around, wondering where the hell Elfhelm had gone. Just as he was about to ask, Elfhelm re-appeared, coming around the corner of the squat building.

Elfhelm pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "There's another bike on the other side."

"Oh, yeah? What kind?"

"No idea. A fairly big one. Red and white."

Eomer rolled his eyes. Fairly big. Red and white. He supposed he should just be grateful Elfhelm hadn't told him it had shiny lights and two wheels. He turned to Vonnal, pointing towards the river. "Just going to the other side of the building to take a look at another bike."

Vonnal nodded. "Aye, sir."

With Vonnal and Elfhelm trailing behind, Eomer made his way round the block. And yes, there was another bike. An extremely familiar-looking bike—a pristine, original, ninety-four Shadowfax 500. He looked around, but saw no sign of the owner. He walked to check the path at the river, and found her there, sitting on one of the viewing benches, watching some birds playing out on the water.

What to do now? He wasn't averse to talking to Lady Solwen again—he wouldn't mind getting to know her better, and still had a half-formed idea of asking her to have dinner with him—but not today, and not with three bodyguards in tow. And certainly not with Elfhelm in tow. Bema love the man, but they didn't call him the Earl of Intercom for nothing.

Better to leave it to another, more private time.

He was turning to head back to his bike when Solwen herself undid his plans, standing up and turning to leave before he could fully move out of sight. She started as she saw him, caught in a perfect freeze-frame moment of not being entirely sure what to do. Sensibly, she settled for a quick smile and a nod, acknowledging him but as wary as he was of doing or saying anything more in such a public setting.

He gave her the smallest of smiles and nods in return.

"Someone you know?" Elfhelm said.

Bema. Of all the times for Elfhelm to pick up on something. "Yes."

Grinning, Elfhelm leaned in to whisper, "One of your marvellous lady friends, I suspect?"

"Just someone I met a few weeks ago."

"Really? When?"

Eomer shrugged. "Some charity thing, I think," he lied. "Can't remember which one. You know how many of them I do."

"Well aren't we being mysterious today?"

Solwen grabbed her helmet to head for her bike, going to the access stairs at the far end instead of using the path, probably to give them as wide a berth as she could. As she moved, she looked anywhere but at them. Eomer didn't know how 'marvellous' she was—he wouldn't pass up the chance to find out—but she certainly knew when to keep her eyes down and mind her own business.

Maybe she could give Elfhelm lessons…

"Not being mysterious at all," Eomer said.

"So, who the hell is she, then?"

"Why do you even want to know?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you so obviously don't want to tell me?"

Eomer felt a surge of annoyance. "Elfhelm, if you think I so obviously don't want to tell you, why the fuck are you even asking?"

Elfhelm sighed and turned to Vonnal. "Vonnal, do you know who that woman is?" he asked, pointing at Solwen, now almost back at her bike.

"No, sir, I'm afraid I don't," Vonnal truthfully said.

For once, Eomer was relieved he hadn't been able to bring Fastmer with him. Fastmer would have known who it was—he'd been with Eomer when he and Solwen had met in the garage. If he was here, would he have lied, or told Elfhelm the truth? Probably the latter, if only to pay him back for the incident out at the Pass.

Elfhelm was undeterred. "I guess I'll just have to ask her myself, then. Maybe _she'll_ remember where and how the two of you met, what _charity function_ it was at, since you so obviously don't."

Could he have Elfhelm whipped, he wondered? Killing him would be a step too far—the man _was_ his best friend—but would a sound flogging teach him a lesson? Probably, but not soon enough to stop him making a pain in the arse of himself. As Elfhelm so often did. Almost always by accident, but sometimes, like right here and now, very much deliberately. And it wasn't that Eomer didn't want Elfhelm and Solwen to meet, he just didn't want to deal with the introductions today.

"If I tell you, will you promise not to immediately jump to the wrong conclusion?" Eomer said.

"I never jump to the wrong conclusion."

Eomer could think of ten times his friend had done so this year alone. "Of course you don't."

"Go on, then. Who is she?"

"It's Solwen Hamelmark," Eomer said.

" _Hamelmark_? The one who broke Thelden Camelor's nose?"

"That one, yes."

"I thought she was under a Ban. Because of the punching thing."

"She was. I revoked the Ban a few weeks ago."

"You never told me that."

"I wasn't aware I had to. I am the _King_ , Elf. Believe it or not, I'm allowed to do things without your approval."

"Did she come to the palace to ask you in person?" Elfhelm's voice dropped to a whisper. "Get down on her knees in your office, _beg_ you to take pity on her?"

Bema, the direction this man's imagination sometimes ran off in…

Eomer shook his head. "Something much simpler than that. She wrote a letter to me."

"Did she ask you nicely?"

"Extremely." With the neatest handwriting he'd ever seen.

"So, if she didn't come to the Palace, how the bloody hell did you meet her?"

That was the part he really didn't want to discuss. "Long story. Don't ask."

"So, it wasn't a charity function, then?"

"I'm saying nothing."

"You should go and say hello."

"Why?"

"Um, because you _know_ her? And she knows you? And she's an earl's daughter? And she's standing twenty metres away? And she has a _bike_ , for Bema's sake? I mean, I know you're the King, so you don't always understand how this stuff works, you probably have a servant to greet the peasants for you, but I can assure you, going over to say hello to her is _absolutely_ what a normal person would do."

Since when did Elfhelm of Elgoll—a man who'd been born with a mithril spoon up his arse because a solid gold one was just too cheap—know what a 'normal' person would do?

"What if I'm not saying hello to her because I don't like her?"

"That means you've spent enough time with her to figure out you don't like her."

"Believe it or not, Elf, I can decide to not like a person in less a minute. I don't need to spend a lot of time with them first."

"Fine," said Elfhelm, huffing. "If you're going to be an arsehole about it, _I'll_ go and say hello to her."

"You don't fucking know her."

"Since when has that ever been enough to stop me?" He turned away and started to walk.

"Okay, okay," Eomer said, reaching out to yank Elfhelm back. "I'll say hello to her." He turned to Vonnal, who looked as if he was ready to pull out his foldup chair and his opera glasses. He pointed at Solwen. "I'm going to talk to the woman who owns that bike. I know her, she's been through a full security check at the Palace, she's absolutely _not_ a threat."

Vonnal nodded. "Understood, sir. I'll follow your lead."

At least his guards knew how to behave.

Eomer took a quick breath for courage and wandered over to Solwen's bike. "Hello again," he said.

She smiled and nodded. "Your Majesty, hello." She frowned slightly, her eyes darting to something over his shoulder.

With exquisite timing, Elfhelm barged in. Bema. Would it kill the man to wait thirty seconds? Eomer vowed, right there and then, the next time Elfhelm was trying to hit on a good-looking guy, he was going to crash the occasion, pull the most outrageous cock-blocking stunt he could think of. Maybe the 'jilted ex-lover' trick. It always worked when Eowyn sprang it on him.

But that was for later. Right now, introductions were in order.

Sighing, he turned to acknowledge his friend. "Lady Solwen, may I introduce Lord Elfhelm, the heir to the earldom of Elgoll? Lord Elfhelm, this is Lady Solwen, the Earl of Hamelmark's daughter."

Solwen held out a hand. "How do you do?" she said.

Elfhelm went to take the hand, froze and half-pulled it away. "You're not going to punch me are you?"

And Bema, would it kill the man to be slightly more subtle?

Fortunately, Solwen took the joke on the chin. She smiled, if not warmly, at least politely. "Only if you ask me nicely."

"Ooh, I like her," Elfhelm said, finally shaking the hand.

Eomer pointed to the 'fax. "How's she running now?"

"Like a dream. The electrics haven't so much as flickered."

"It's a very pretty bike," Elfhelm said. "I quite like the colour scheme."

"You'll have to forgive his Lordship," Eomer said. "He's not big on technical details. He can just about manage shapes and colours. But only primary colours, so don't ask him what fuchsia is." Not that he was entirely sure himself. Some kind of pink, if he recalled correctly…

She walked out far enough to see what bikes their group was riding. To Elfhelm, she said, "Which one are you on?"

"The red one," said Elfhelm, pointing. "An MS-something. I'm not sure what make it is. It's not even mine. I just borrowed it from His Majesty's stable."

Eomer heaved a sigh. "See what I mean?"

"You don't have a bike of your own, then?" Solwen asked next.

Eomer answered for his friend. "He's learned the hard way it's better if he doesn't own one. Every time he buys one, he ends up binning it down a hill a few weeks later. It's gotten to be a rather expensive hobby of sorts." And a rather painful one as well.

"And you let him borrow one of yours?"

"I only let him ride the older bikes," Eomer explained. "The ones I don't really use anymore. I don't let him anywhere near my good ones, don't worry."

"If he's as accident prone as you say, I'm not sure I'd let him anywhere near my _house_ , never mind any of my bikes."

Huffing, Elfhelm waved a hand between them. "Hello? Yes, I _am_ standing right here you know. And I can hear everything you're saying."

"I don't see the Firefoot," Solwen said.

"I'm on the SXR today." His 1200cc tourer—more powerful than the Firefoot in some ways, but nowhere near as tricky to ride.

"Looks very comfortable."

"I call it the silver sofa. Got so many tricks and gadgets in it, it practically rides itself."

"Going anywhere interesting?"

"Just doing the inner river circuit," Eomer said, making a circling motion with his finger. He turned to point at the bridge. "We'll cross here, head back into town."

"No throwing the Firefoot up the Starkhorn pass at full speed today?" she asked, with an entirely too innocent look that made him wonder what she and Brendal had talked about, back in the garage, after he'd left.

"Not today, no," he said. "It's a challenging road, and Elfhelm would have to do it at twenty. Would take us all day to get there and back."

"We can't all ride as marvellously as Your Majesty, sir," Elfhelm muttered.

"If he rode it at twenty, at least he'd get there in one piece." Solwen shrugged. "Better slow than dead, I think."

Fastmer would agree with that…

"What about you?" Eomer asked. "You heading anywhere nice?"

"Just doing the river valley circuit as well. Might cross here, or at the next bridge up. I haven't decided yet."

Eomer decided, right there and then, he _did_ want to have dinner with her. But he would deal with that later—have Colwenna call her to set something up. "Well, we won't keep you. It was very nice to see you again. You have a safe ride home."

She smiled. "Thank you, I will. You too."

He turned away, leading Elfhelm and Vonnal back to their bikes.

"You should invite her for lunch," Elfhelm murmured.

"Sorry?"

"We're having lunch back at the Palace, aren't we?"

"That was the plan, yes." Assuming he could resist the urge to pitch his best friend over the wall before they even got to the terrace.

"You should invite her."

Eomer stopped dead in his tracks; it was time to nip this inanity in the bud. "Elfhelm, what the _fuck_ are you doing?"

"I'm trying to help you with your love life."

"What makes you think I need you to help me with my love life?" he said.

"You _do_ remember who you're talking to here? The one person in the whole world who _actually_ knows what your love life looks like?"

"Okay, but why would inviting Solwen Hamelmark to lunch help?" If he was going to meet her for lunch, he wanted to do it at his own speed and in his own time, not as an Elfhelm-organized operation. And certainly not with Elfhelm there to chaperone the event. Talk about unromantic…

"Oh, I don't know," Elfhelm said. "Maybe because she's single, and you're single, and she likes bikes, and you like bikes, and she's attractive, and you're attractive. Oh, yeah, and you're a King, and she's an earl's daughter. This isn't just Bema showing you the opportunity, sir. This is Bema tying it up with a pretty bow and dropping it right in your fucking lap."

"I barely know her."

"And you won't get to know her if you keep using the fact you barely know her to avoid getting to know her."

Sadly, there was logic in that. "Okay, but lunch back at the Palace with you and me seems a bit much."

Elfhelm shrugged. "It could be worse. We could be having lunch with Eowyn as well."

The mere prospect almost made Eomer throw up a bit in his mouth.

"What do you think, Vonnal?" Elfhelm said, turning to address the guard. "Should the King invite Lady Solwen to lunch?"

Vonnal blinked like a baby deer caught in the sights of a gun.

Behind them, Solwen fired up her bike.

"Now or never," Elfhelm warned.

"Then, it'll have to be never." he had his own plan; he wasn't going to be pushed into this, not even by his best friend.

"You're going to make me pull out my big guns, aren't you?"

"Please don't," Eomer pleaded. "We're in a public place. I think they arrest you for that."

Elfhelm moved in close to whisper, "If you don't invite her back to the Palace for lunch, I'll tell Eowyn you and Seorsa Camelor got together _before_ she separated from her husband."

"Two weeks before. She had already filled out the papers. It's not like it really matters."

"I'm sure Eowyn will see it that way as well."

Except, no, as they both knew, Eowyn bloody well wouldn't. "If you tell her what happened, she'll kill me for lying to her. And then she'll kill you as well, for _knowing_ I was lying to her. Don't think you'll escape this unscathed."

Solwen started to backpedal out.

Elfhelm backed off, arms crossed, brows raised, calmly staring him down. "Last chance," he warned.

Eomer could just hear what his sister would say. Or shout. Or scream. He wasn't quite sure. Whatever she did, however she did it, it would end with his blood and guts on the walls. "Fine," he said with gritted teeth. "I'll invite her to lunch. But I doubt she'll accept."

"You won't know until you ask."

Eomer hurried over, waving Solwen down just as she kicked her shifter down into first. He gestured for her to switch the bike off.

She pulled the shifter up into neutral, killed the power and flipped up her visor, giving him a quizzical frown. "Problem, sir?" she said.

"No problem. It's just, Elfhelm and I are heading back to the Palace for lunch. He was wondering— _we_ were wondering—if you're not too busy, would you care to join us?"

She blinked. "For _lunch_?"

"Lunch, yes."

"I'm not entirely sure what to say."

"Yes, is the usual answer." But maybe she didn't want to, and was trying to think of a way to refuse? "Unless you have other plans, that is," he hastily added.

"No, I don't have other plans. But wouldn't I be intruding?"

"Not at all, no."

"And it won't cause you any trouble?"

It would, but not in the way she meant. "Nope."

"Then, yes. That would be lovely, thank you."

"Great." He turned to gesture at his group. "Why don't you ride back to the Palace with us?"

"Actually, would you be offended if I rode on ahead, waited for you at the main gate?" Her smile was almost shy. "I haven't done a lot of convoy riding, I get a wee bit nervous when there are too many people too close to me on the road."

"Of course not." And it might be safer for her, given the way Elfhelm rode. If you could call what Elfhelm did riding. "Why don't you head off, we'll meet you there? Just let me confirm with Vonnal first, so he knows to stop and collect you when he reaches the gate."

"Absolutely."

He strode to Vonnal, who was now suited up. "Lady Solwen is coming back to the Palace with us," he said.

"Of course, sir."

"But she's going to ride on ahead, wait for us at the main gate. Can you contact the guards at the checkpoint, let them know to allow her to wait, not try to shoot her for loitering or make her move her on?"

Vonnal gave a curt nod. "I'll do that right now, sir." He turned away, pressing the button on the intercom unit Eomer knew connected to his phone. The guard turned briefly to look at Solwen; Eomer heard him say 'Shadowfax'—he was probably giving the men at the checkpoint a description, so they knew who and what to look out for.

Vonnal turned back. "All done, sir. They know who and what to look for. They'll open the gate when she arrives, direct her to the garage. We'll meet her there."

Eomer gave Solwen a thumb up. She nodded, slipped her bike into gear, pulled up her feet and rode away. He watched as she turned onto the road, rode to the junction up ahead, and turned again to race over the bridge. At the speed she was going, she would be at the Palace in thirty minutes.

Elfhelm came up beside him. "She said no, then?"

"She said yes. But she's going to meet us back at the Palace."

"Not in the mood for convoy riding?"

"She was probably worried you'd miss a gear change and take her out."

Elfhelm huffed. 'I'm not _that_ bad."

"Elfhelm, you're the only person I know who's ever managed to wreck their bike _while_ it was parked in the garage."

"In my defense, I forgot I'd parked it in the space I usually swing my car into."

"Ready whenever you are, sir," Vonnal called out.

Eomer grabbed his lid to pull out his gloves. "Let's get on the road."

This was going to be an interesting lunch…


	34. Chapter 34

Which of the garage's light-fingered bastards had 'borrowed' his bloody torque wrench today?

Probably Wulf. When things went missing, Wulf was _always_ to blame.

Brendal drew in a breath, ready to bellow his thieving co-worker's name, but quickly let it out again as he heard a motorcycle come in. The King and his friend were back from their ride, obviously alive, and hopefully both still in one piece. Except, he could only hear one engine, and it sounded more like a twin than a four. The King's guards were all riding twins. Had one of them developed a problem and had to come home alone?

He stuck his head out into the hall, just in time to see a familiar bike coming through the main door. Familiar, but totally unexpected. He watched as she parked up in bay one, killed the engine, kicked out the stand and took off her lid.

"The bloody hell are you doing here?" he said, walking to meet her.

Solwen smiled and pulled her earplugs out. "Nice to see you again, too, Brendal. I'm very well, thank you for asking."

"Sorry, lass. It's nice to see you again, too. I'm just a wee bit surprised. This isn't the kind of garage you can just drop into unannounced."

She swung off her bike, jamming her helmet over a mirror. "Don't worry. I'm not breaking in or launching a coup. My name was on the access list at the gate."

Interesting. Who had given her access today? She'd only met three people in the whole complex, that he knew of at least. The request hadn't come from him, and he couldn't imagine it had come from Fastmer, either. Which meant only one thing.

"Are you here to meet the King?" he asked, wondering if His Majesty had taken him up on his suggestion. It would be a first, if he had. And probably a last as well.

She took off her jacket to lay it over the Shadowfax's seat. "I already met him. I'm here to have lunch with him."

"Sorry?"

"I was out riding the river circuit, bumped into him and his friend at the cark park next to the Snowbourn Bridge. He invited me back to the Palace for lunch."

Aye, that was usually how it started. A nice lunch on the terrace today, a round of 'hide the royal sausage' tomorrow. "You're moving up in the world," he said.

"To be honest, it was a spur of the moment decision, and I think I might have made a mistake."

"Why?"

"Well, is it a business lunch, or a date lunch?" she asked.

"Why the fuck would it be a business lunch?"

"Why the fuck would it be a date lunch?"

Sometimes, it honestly amazed him how idiotic the Landed could be. She seemed smarter than most—as if she at least knew how to open a jar by herself—but what the _fuck_ kind of question was that? "Maybe because he's a single, attractive, motorbike-riding King, and you're a single, attractive, motorbike-riding Earl's daughter?" Could she seriously not figure that out for herself?

"What if he's trying to set me up with his friend?"

"Elfhelm?"

"That one, aye."

Bema fucking save him. Although, to be fair, she hadn't lived here for almost ten years, so she probably didn't know. "I highly doubt it."

"Why?"

"Because Elfhelm likes men. _That's_ why."

"Really?"

"Solwen, lass, there's more chance of the King setting me up with his sister than there is of him setting you up with his best friend."

"Do you think it's too late to change my mind?" she said.

"Why the hell would you want to do that?"

"It's just…" She heaved an anxious sigh. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"Relax, lass," Brendal soothed. "It's just a lunch. How complicated can it be?"

"Maybe he's trying to soften me up because he wants to buy the 'fax."

"Could be that, yeah."

"I'm not selling it," she vowed. "If that's what he's after, he's wasting his bloody time."

Brendal was pretty sure the King was after more than her bike. "He can be quite persuasive, you know."

"I'm sure he can. But unlike him, _I'm_ not that easy."

Behind them, a woman cleared her throat.

Brendal muttered the worst Dunnish curse he could think of. He really wished some people in this Palace would learn to make a decent amount of noise when they moved. He turned, fixing his most courteous smile. "Colwenna. What a lovely surprise. How are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you, Brendal." Colwenna's smile was as courteous and forced as his own. "The guards at the checkpoint passed on Vonnal's message. I decided I would come to escort Lady Solwen up to lunch." She didn't ask how he was, he noticed. But he knew fine well she was only being as polite as she was because they weren't alone. She would come back later, once Solwen was gone, to quietly rip him a new one and remind him to watch his manners when he spoke about the King. Except, there was nothing wrong with his manners—they just weren't as puckered and fawning as hers.

"Of course." Brendal turned back to Solwen, smiling again, even though what he really wanted to do was put his fist through a wall. "Colwenna will take care of you from here. Enjoy your lunch. I'll keep an eye on the 'fax for you."

Solwen smiled in thanks. "I'll catch up with you on the way out, okay?"

Colwenna turned to appraise her new charge.

As always when it came to women, the King's assessment had been spot on. She was tall, with a nice figure, and pleasing to look at, but with a slightly too long nose and slightly too angular chin to be considered an out-and-out beauty. Her eyes were definitely her best feature—not exotic in size or shape, just the bluest Colwenna had ever seen.

There was curiosity in those blue eyes, and a hint of wariness as well. Understandable, given where they were standing and what Colwenna had just heard the young lady saying. But no cruelty or haughtiness that Colwenna could sense. And no embarrassment or remorse, either—just that blasted, stubborn Marcher bravado, oozing out of every last pore. If she knew Colwenna had heard her 'joke', she wasn't letting on.

Colwenna summoned a smile. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Colwenna Wincrane. I look after His Majesty's household affairs."

"Solwen Hamelmark," the newcomer said, opting for the informal form of her name. She would have been perfectly within her rights to introduce herself as Lady Solwen instead. She held out her hand—Colwenna took it to shake. Her grip was as bold as her disposition; no gentle, wilting offering here. "Thank you for coming to fetch me," she added. "I wasn't sure if I should just wait here until the rest of the group showed up."

"We prefer not to let people linger," Colwenna said. "For security reasons, you understand. _And_ for safety reasons as well," she added. "There's always so much going on in the garage, we wouldn't want you to injure yourself." She turned to wave at the door behind her. 'If you'll follow me, there's an elevator just through here. I'll escort you up to the terrace."

They rode up in the elevator, side by side, in slightly uncomfortable silence at first, until the young lady's curiosity inevitably got the better of her. "Miss Wincrane, may I ask, how long have you worked at the Palace?"

"Twenty-two years," Colwenna said. "And call me Colwenna, please." She knew from experience what question her guest would ask next. "I knew His Majesty and Her Royal Highness when they lived in Aldburg. I was a childhood friend of their mother's. When their parents died, and King Theoden brought them here, he allowed me to come with them, so they would have someone familiar nearby." She wasn't sure 'allowed' was the best word to use—she'd told King Theoden right to his face she would stay in Edoras with the children whether he bloody well liked it or not—but that wasn't a detail her visitor needed to know.

"And you've never left."

The elevator ground to a halt. Colwenna opened the door, leading her charge into a high-ceilinged, painting-lined hall. As always, she paused, giving the visitor a few seconds to marvel at the ceiling friezes, showing the story of Eorl's victory at the Celebrant. "I told His Majesty I would stay as long as he needed me. He hasn't told me he doesn't need me yet, so I'm still here."

"You're very loyal."

"He's my King. Of course I am."

Was it her imagination, or did that rattle the young lady slightly? Colwenna hoped so. This Hamelmark girl seemed pleasant enough, but something about her Marcher demeanour rubbed her own Eastmark sensibilities the wrong way. Here Lady Solwen was, standing in the heart of the Meduseld Palace, about to have lunch with the King in his private apartment, and she seemed not the slightest bit unnerved, as if she'd been here a thousand times before, and came here to do this every week. Colwenna didn't expect tears of joy and reverential awe, but would a little humility go amiss?

She led the earl's daughter down the hall, into a side corridor, around a series of maze-like corners, then through a plain, nondescript door that opened onto the King's private terrace.

Lady Solwen drew in a breath. Eyes wide, she strode to the wall to take in the view out over the city. "Bema, would you look at _that_?"

Colwenna went to stand beside her. "It's one of the things I love most about this job, that I get to see this every day. No matter how often I see it, it always takes my breath away."

"It's stunning."

"It's even more stunning at night."

"I can imagine." She leaned out to look over the wall, at the precipitous drop to the ground far below. "We're a fair distance up. What floor of the complex are we on?"

"We're at the very top, on the private residence floor."

"So, this floor is where the King lives?"

"This is the terrace for His Majesty's private apartments, yes."

Her brows shot up, she turned to wave at the building behind them. "This, here?"

"That's right."

"Am I even allowed to be here? Isn't this a major security risk?"

"Normally, it would be, yes. But the security team has already run a basic check on you." Lady Solwen wouldn't know it, but she had The Princess Royal to thank for that—a part of the Midsummer party procedure. "And you _are_ an earl's daughter. We've decided it's highly unlikely you mean His Majesty any harm." She couldn't resist. "Just don't throw a punch at anyone, please?"

Lady Solwen let out a sigh. "This is what I'm going to be remembered for for the rest of my life, isn't it?" She held up an index finger. "I punch _one_ person. _One_ time. And this is what's going to go on my gravestone when I die."

"There are worse things to be remembered for, I think."

"Very true."

Colwenna turned to point at the lunch table, which she'd only just finished setting. "I've put out some drinks and light snacks. Make yourself comfortable, please. I'm going to check in with the kitchen, see what's happening with the food. I'll return when the King arrives."

"Thank you. You're very kind."

Colwenna nodded and turned towards the Palace. A few steps in, she paused and turned back. It probably wasn't her place to say what she was about to say, and the King might be angry if he found out, but she still felt like she had to say it. "Lady Solwen?"

"Yes?"

"The comment I just heard you make, about the King, to Brendal, down in the garage. I know it's just how Marchers talk, and that you likely didn't mean any harm by it, but you should know, other people in this building might not see it that way."

"I apologize if I gave offence. It certainly wasn't my intention."

Colwenna waited for more, but that seemed to be all the girl had to say. Marchers apparently apologized the same way they talked—they didn't use ten words when three words would do.

"I understand you're not the most obsequious of people, and Bema knows, nobody here likes a fawning forelock tugger"—why did Fenbrand suddenly spring to mind—"but there's a difference between being obsequious and showing good manners. You're the daughter of one of the Kingdom's oldest Landed Houses. I'd like to think you're at least _vaguely_ familiar with the latter."

"I am, yes."

"Then, I'll ask you to please remember those manners when you're in the King's home. I don't expect you to curtsy to him, and just so you know, he doesn't either, the old customs aren't really his thing, but I _do_ expect you to be polite to him. Whatever you think of the monarchy as an institution, however you conduct yourself when you are outside these walls, when you are in this building, you will not make off-colour jokes about him, or refer to him in a demeaning way. Is that clear?"

"Absolutely."

The briefest of answers again. But this time, the young lady sensed something more was required. Quickly, she added. "I give you my word."

That was good enough for Colwenna. She might not always understand Marchers, and their boldness sometimes put her on edge, but she knew from her years of working with men like Vonnal and Brendal that a promise made was a promise kept.

"You'll excuse me then."

"Of course."

The door into the Palace opened. To her surprise, only the King appeared.

Colwenna sighed. The absence of the other guest could only mean one thing. "Did Lord Elfhelm have an accident again?" she said as she went to meet him.

"He didn't crash his bike, if that's what you mean." The King leaned in to murmur, "He, uh, he had something urgent come up. His sister called. She needs his help."

"His _sister_?" One of the smartest, most capable women Colwenna had ever met? _She_ needed help? And Elfhelm's help at that? Mister Walking Disaster Chaos himself? Something smelled off, but it wasn't her place to comment on it.

"She's locked out of her house, I think. Elfhelm has her spare key, so he had to go let her in." The King smiled in a way that told her he smelled fishy Elfhelm bullshit as well.

"I'll go and let the kitchen know it'll be two people after all."

"If they've already made all the food, just send all three servings up."

"You are _not_ going to eat two lunches."

"I'm _hungry_."

The tone he used, the way he said it—it was like dealing with a teenager all over again.

"Mother of Bema, child," she whispered. "What are you, _twelve_?"

"Waste not, want not. Isn't that what you always say?"

She had no idea how he stayed as trim as he did. He was going to _hate_ turning forty. "Fine. Go serve the young lady a drink. The first course will be here soon."


	35. Chapter 35

From her place at the balustrade, Solwen watch the conversation, amused.

He was the King, she was the head of his personal staff, but you would never know it from watching the way they interacted. There were hints of deference in her gestures, but it was more like watching a tolerant mother with a tolerance-straining son than an employee with an employer. Actually, no. More like watching a favourite nephew with an outwardly impatient but inwardly affectionate aunt. That wasn't surprising. Colwenna wasn't a blood relation, but given the nature of her position, and how long she'd been working here for, the King had probably spent more time with her in the last twenty years than with all of his other female relatives put together.

Solwen rather liked that idea. She'd grown up with a stepmother herself (plus two half-brothers and two sort-of stepbrothers), so she understood that family wasn't always who you were born with. Sometimes, family was who you gathered along the way. Or, in Eomer and Eowyn's case, who gathered you. It was a good thing they had Colwenna. And, also that Colwenna had them.

She smiled as the King approached. "I was about to ask where Lord Elfhelm went, but given what you told me about his talent for accidents, I'm not sure I want to know."

The King smiled back, showing those gorgeous dimples again. "He's fine. No accident today. But he, uh, he had a family emergency. When we got back to the garage, he had to rush off."

"I'm quite sure he did." She would get her revenge on Lord Elfhelm later. And Bema, would it kill the man to be subtle? Or a tiny wee bit more creative? Was the 'family emergency' trick really the best he could do?

"Just the two of us for lunch, then," he said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, no." And what the hell could she do if she did? She wouldn't stoop to Elfhelm's level to wiggle out of an obligation. "As long as I'm not keeping you from some other work you need to deal with," she said, in case he was looking for a way out himself.

He shook his head. "This was in my schedule, so I'm free until one-thirty."

She turned to gesture over the city. "I was just admiring the view."

"Pretty amazing, isn't it?" he said, coming to stand beside her. "I never get bored of looking at it."

"Colwenna told me it's even more amazing at night."

"It is. I'll have you up here in the evening sometime so you can see for yourself."

She turned to raise a brow at him. She was trying to honour Colwenna's warning, but the part of her brain that sat in the gutter couldn't let that one slide.

He cleared his throat, blushing intensely—a strangely endearing sight. "If you're ever here in the evening for a social function, that is."

"Of course."

He gestured to the table Colwenna had laid. "Can I bring you something to drink?"

"Yes, please. But something non-alcoholic, I think."

"Not a drinker?"

"I drink wine, but it puts me to sleep if I have it during the day, so I usually try not to. And I'll have to ride the bike home. Wouldn't do for the cops to pull me over on a DUI charge on the way out of the Palace."

He winced. "That would be rather unfortunate, yes." He picked up a decanter full of a translucent liquid to give the neck a quick sniff. "Think this is some kind of fruit-infused water. Not sure what the fruit is."

"Let's give it a try."

He filled two tumblers, added some cubes of ice to each one and brought them back to the balustrade to hand one to her. "What should we drink to?" he said, raising his glass.

She raised her own. "A clear road and good traction control?"

"I'll drink to that." Gently, they brought their glasses together.

She raised her tumbler to take a sip—she didn't know what the fruit was either—something tart, but pleasantly refreshing.

As protocol required, she waited for him to start the conversation.

"Am I correct in thinking you've been abroad for the last eight years?" he said, starting with a suitably neutral topic.

"You are, I have."

His mouth pulled into a grin. "Not just to avoid apologizing to Thelden Camelor, I hope."

She felt her own cheeks burning. She wasn't proud of what she had done, still didn't like to talk about it. "I'm willing to admit that might have had something to do with it. But it was mostly for school and work."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm a Treasury Analyst," she said.

"Oh, so, you're a money girl, then?"

She hadn't been a girl for ten years, but probably best not to point that out. "That's right."

"Any particular specialty?"

"I've had various roles, but most of my experience has been in either settlements or investigations."

"And what do those roles involve?"

"Settlements is about moving money due on a deal. Entering it into a banking system, making sure it goes to the right place, on the right date, with the right number of zeros at the end."

"I have to ask, what's the biggest amount you've ever settled?"

"Just over thirteen billion Gondorian dollars."

"Thirteen _billion_?" he echoed, brows shooting up. "What in Bema's name was that for?"

"A major corporate acquisition. One huge company buying out another. But that was a really unusual day. Most days, I only moved three or four hundred million."

"Only three or four…" he broke off, shaking his head. He took another sip of his drink. "And what about investigations? What does that involve?"

"Various things, but mostly tracking and finding missing money."

"So, when money's been stolen?"

"Or, when someone has made a mistake, and sent it to the wrong place. I track it down and start the process to bring it back."

"And can you? Bring it back, I mean?"

"That depends on where it went. If it ended up in a bank account in Rohan, Gondor or Dale, I can reclaim it ninety-nine times out of a hundred. It takes a while when Gondor's involved, their paperwork is horrendous, but we almost always get there in the end."

"What about other countries?"

"Dunland and Harad, I'd say we're successful maybe sixty percent of the time. There are some payments they won't ever repatriate, no matter how much proof we have. But if the money went to Mordor or Lasgalen?" She let out a snort. "Good luck with that."

"Difficult?"

"Almost impossible."

"Hmm." He stared at his drink as he swirled his ice, caught in a frowning, thoughtful moment. She stood quietly, waiting him out, wondering what on earth she'd said to provoke it.

"You enjoy it?" he eventually came back to ask.

"I do, yes. It's very detail oriented, can be exhausting at times, but the feeling when you track down somebody's money, I swear, sometimes, it's better than sex."

That got her another dimpled grin. "Lady Solwen, if you think your job is better than sex, either you have the world's best job, or you're having a lot of _really_ bad sex."

Sadly, these days, more of the latter. Maybe he and his dimples could help her with that.

"I said, _sometimes_ , it's better than sex," she repeated. "Not _all_ the time."

"It sounds as if the work could be quite stressful."

She nodded as she sipped on her drink. "It can be, yes. When money goes missing, the people who sent it tend to lose their cool. You can't allow their stress to impact you. You have to be able to keep your own cool, even when they're calling to scream at you every twenty minutes."

"Do you specialize in a particular country?"

"Not really, no. I've worked equally with every country out west, plus a couple out east as well."

"And how do you deal with the language issue?"

"There isn't one, really. International finance runs on Common. If you can't speak it, most of the big finance banks won't hire you. But I've made a point of learning the language wherever I go. Banks run on Common, but the local people and services don't."

"What languages do you speak?"

She was really getting the third degree today—he would be asking her for her personal measurements next. "Common, obviously. Dalish, fluently. Sindarin, competently. Dunnish and Mordish, well enough to join in a social conversation, as long as nobody talks too fast. But not well enough to tackle complex issues. When it's a work thing, I usually have to ask them to switch to Common instead."

"That's quite a list."

She shrugged. "I was raised in a multi-lingual household, so languages have never been a big problem for me."

"Can I assume that means you speak Rohirric as well?" he asked.

"I do, yes." Which, sadly, put her in a minority, especially in Edoras. "My grandmother insisted on it, so my father sent me to a First School with a Rohirric immersion program."

Smiling sheepishly, he said, "Did you know I don't? Speak Rohirric, I mean?"

"I did." A shocking omission, in her opinion. But it wasn't entirely his fault—in some ways, he'd been as much of a victim of his grandfather's language laws as she had.

"Rather embarrassing, isn't it? To be King of Rohan, and not be able to speak it?"

It was, but this wasn't a moment for an honest answer, she sensed. "There's nothing to stop you from learning," she said. "It's not too hard to pick it up if you already know Common. Speaking it, at least. Reading and writing is harder, because you have to learn the Forvork Script, but I always say you shouldn't worry about that until later."

"Other people have told me that, yes."

"If you're interested, I know a really good teacher. She's a distant cousin of mine. I'm sure she'd be happy to help."

"You seem to have a lot of those."

"What, teachers?"

"Cousins."

"No more than you, I would think."

His smile was forced and sour. "Would quite like to have at least one less of them right now."

That would be the Thenwis Colafell thing. A tricky issue, and one they probably shouldn't discuss, given her father was one of the people who would vote to approve or reject the petition.

He turned to wave at the table, perhaps realizing he'd said too much and a change of topic was needed. "If you don't mind, I had an early breakfast today, and I'm about ready to eat the proverbial horse. Let's go see what Colwenna has put out for us."

Men and their bottomless stomachs. "Of course."

They moved to the table to grab a seat. He opted for one in the sun, she for one in the shade. They each picked a selection of snacks and nibbles onto a plate.

"While we're on the subject of languages, it's interesting that you've been abroad all these years, but your accent hasn't changed," he said.

"A very conscious decision on my part."

He grinned. "You can take the girl out of the March, but you can't take the March out of the girl?"

There was that bloody 'girl' word again. "Something like that. But I would feel the same way even if I was from Anorien or the Eastfold. My accent's a big part of who I am. I'm not going to change it for anyone or anything. I don't always use the same vocabulary, obviously. There are some words phrases only other Rohirrim or Marchers would understand."

"When Brendal's really angry with someone, he tells them to go sh—" he broke off, looking embarrassed again.

"It's alright, Your Majesty. I'm not offended by colourful language.."

He smiled in relief. "He tells them to go shite themselves. Or to take it all the way to fuck."

Both popular Marcher phrases. "That second one was a favourite of my grandmother's as well."

He paused to munch through a cheese-covered cracker. "So, where did you go? When you worked abroad, I mean? I can guess from the languages you speak, but where precisely?"

"Esgaroth first, for the last two years of school and the first year of work, then Lasgalen for two years, then Barad-dûr for eighteen months, then Dol Amroth for six months, then Minas Tirith for a year."

"You've really gotten around."

She didn't care what Colwenna had said; there was no _way_ she was letting that one go unchallenged. "Not sure that's the kind of thing a gentleman should ever say to a lady."

He blushed again. For a King, he was disturbingly good at it. "That's not what I meant."

"I know it isn't. I was just teasing."

"You've lived in a lot of different places. _That's_ what I was trying to say."

"Quite a few, yes."

Frowning, he paused for a moment, as if he was trying to decide if he wanted to ask his next question. "Can I ask, what you thought of Lasgalen?"

"Beautiful place. Clean, safe, organized. People are super-polite."

"Do I hear a 'but' at the end of that sentence?"

"Super-polite, but not super-friendly." Especially when you weren't Elvish. "And the banking system?" She pretended to shudder.

"Hmm, yes, I've heard about that."

She leaned in to spear a bacon-wrapped date. "I tell you what, though. Lasgalen isn't lily white by any means, but it's nowhere _near_ as bad as Mordor."

"Who did you work for when you were there?"

"One of the big public banks for six months, then a private investment bank for a year."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"The work was interesting, yes. And the money was great. And Barad-dûr's actually an amazing place, once you figure out how it works. The traffic's a nightmare, and the services aren't so good once you're outside the core, but inside it, you have literally everything you could ever want. Good restaurants, good bars, good clubs, good theatres, amazing museums. It might be a tiny bit treasonous of me to say this, but their cultural district's much better than ours."

"If it was so good, why did you leave?"

"The political situation got a bit fraught."

He snorted into his drink. "Not sure 'fraught' is the word I would use."

"Authoritarian and oppressive, then?"

"That's better."

"It wasn't too bad when I first moved there. It's never been the most open of countries, I always had to watch what where I went and what I said, but it took a huge turn for the worse when Aleswind took over. He put restrictions on what jobs foreigners could have, then on where inside the country we could travel to, then on where in Barad-dûr we could live. Then he started refusing to renew people's visas. Then he started arresting people who tried to complain. Soon as that started up, I knew it was time to leave. I transferred all my money home, sold or gave away anything I couldn't take with me, packed up and got on a plane."

"Sensible."

"That's what I thought."

"More sensible would have been not going there in the first place, I think."

Now he sounded like her father, who'd phoned her every week like clockwork, demanding to know when the hell she was coming home. "I was twenty-four. I thought I knew everything."

"And now you're all of twenty-eight, you realize you actually don't?"

"We can't all be as wise and prudent as His Majesty, sir," she said, probably slightly too tartly.

He sighed and flapped his hands at her. "See, there it is again."

"What?"

"That damn sarcasm thing you all do."

"Who?"

"Marchers. I swear, you're all genetically incapable of not making a snarky comment whenever you have the chance."

It wasn't the first time she'd heard that complaint; she shrugged and gave him the usual response. "If you don't like it, don't give us the chance." And it wasn't as if he wasn't perfectly capable of making snarky remarks of his own.

"Does it never occur to any of you, to just _not_ make the snarky remark?"

"It's a cultural thing for us, sir. It's just not how we roll."

"Apparently."

"Does it offend you?" she asked.

He picked an olive out of a bowl. "Sometimes, a little bit, yes."

Some ruffled feathers might need to be smoothed, then. "When it does, just tell us that. We won't mind. We do it as this kind of weird, bonding, one-upmanship thing. It's never intended to be cruel. If we hurt someone's feelings, we'll always say sorry."

"Will you say sorry to me?"

"Did I hurt your feelings?"

His eyes crinkled in a smile. "Not really, no. And to be honest, sometimes I _do_ actually appreciate it. The snark, I mean."

"Really?"

He finished his drink, reached out to pour himself another. "Lady Solwen, I spend all day, every day surrounded by people who think it's their job to tell me what I want to hear."

"So, when you come home from having your arse kissed all day, and Brendal tells you to take yourself all the way to fuck, it might actually be a good thing?"

"It certainly reminds me not to take the arse kissing part too seriously."

An unassuming, down-to-earth King; she rather liked that idea. "That's a good thing, I think. Means we won't ever have to round up a baying mob to depose you because you're trying to turn into a tinpot dictator."

"And there you go again," he said, exasperated.

"That wasn't me being snarky, Your Majesty. That was just me making a perfectly sensible observation."

"You _do_ realize, it's actually against the law to threaten to kill or overthrow the monarch?"

Unassuming and down-to-earth, but maybe a _tiny_ bit touchy as well. "Except, I wasn't threatening to kill or overthrow you."

"You talked about rounding up a baying mob to depose me."

"I talked about _not_ rounding up a baying mob to depose you. That's an entirely different thing altogether."

"But it would still make some of the people who work for me extremely uneasy."

She could just imagine the type of forelock tuggers he meant. "With all due respect, sir, those people need to get over themselves. Whether they like it or not, we're living in a democracy now. They don't get to arrest people just for saying things that make them uneasy. If that's what they want, they should move to Mordor to work for Sauron Aleswind instead."

"Speaking of people being arrested for saying things they shouldn't, did you know, Aleswind apparently had one of his people done away with last week for calling him Pale Ale to his face?"

She'd read about that. "The Minister of the Interior, yes. Not sure what the hell the man was thinking. He's known Aleswind for twenty years. He of all people should have known how sensitive his boss is about his complexion."

"I just don't understand how anyone can be so pasty." He wrinkled his nose. "It's like he never goes out in the sun."

She snickered. "He makes King Thranduil look tanned."

That brought on another churlish frown.

It was the mention of Lasgalen, she realized. Every time the country came up, his mood took a downward turn. She would love to know why, but there was no way in hell she was going to ask. If it was Lasgalen, it was almost certainly something to do with money, and money was a private affair.

"So, what about Gondor?" he asked.

"What about it?"

"You said you were there for eighteen months."

"That's right."

"How on earth did you last so long?"

"Why does eighteen months seem long?" It certainly hadn't seemed long to her—her time in Gondor had passed in the blink of an eye.

"It's just, you being a Marcher and all, always saying what you mean and meaning what you say, and not using forty words when five words will do, and given how long-winded most Gondorians are, how the hell did you _ever_ survive?"

"I went to a meditation class every day. And I drank a lot." Although, she'd done a fair bit of that even before she'd moved to Dol Amroth.

He plucked a chicken wing from a plate. "You need the patience of a Maiar to deal with them, don't you?"

Should she tell him, she sometimes felt the same way about people from Edoras? "When I was there, some days, I used to wonder how the country even functioned. Just phoning someone to ask them to restock the toilet paper in the bathroom was an exercise in diplomatic negotiations."

"Is that what made you leave?"

"More just that it was time to move on."

He pointed the chicken wing at her. "See, there's the problem with that Marcher boldness."

She tensed. "What?"

"You mean what you say, and you say what you mean, and you don't use elaborate language…"

"But?"

He bit into the wing. "But it also means you can't lie for shit."

"I hope His Blessed Majesty didn't just imply I'm a liar."

"Let's just say, His Blessed Majesty has reasonable cause to distrust the veracity of your previous statement."

"That's your elaborate, Edoran way of telling me you think I'm full of crap."

"I would never say that to a lady."

"Of course you wouldn't. Not even once." And, earl's daughter or not, she didn't really think of herself as a lady.

"I just got the feeling there was more to why you left Gondor than what you said," he said.

"You're right. There was."

"But if it's too personal to share, I won't make you." He offered to top up her glass—she held up a hand to refuse. "One problem with being a King is that you sometimes forget some matters are none of your business."

"It's not that it's too personal. I'm just not sure you would understand."

"Try me."

"Okay, well, have you ever been turned down for a promotion because you're not from the right place, and didn't go to the right school, and don't belong to the right family, and don't know all the right people?" she said. A purely rhetorical question. He was the King of Rohan, for Bema's sake; they both knew fine well the answer was 'no'.

"Let me guess. You moved to Minas Tirith to take a job in the city, and learned the hard and painful way that all the best jobs are unofficially reserved for the sons of the High Families."

Once again, he surprised her. "You've heard about that tradition, then."

"You're not the first person I've spoken to who's run into that wall. And I doubt you'll be the last, either."

"That's comforting, I guess."

"I'm just amazed you lasted as long as you did. From what I've heard, most people get the message after three months. Six at the very most."

Was he forgetting she'd lived abroad for almost eight years just to avoid his late uncle's Ban? "Maybe I'm not any better at hearing messages couched in elaborate language than I am at giving them."

"And nobody does elaborate language quite like the Gondorian High Families do."

"It wouldn't be so bad if the people they reserved the jobs for were actually good at what they do. I mean, some of them were extremely capable, don't get me wrong, but so many of them were just useless wastes of space."

He plucked another wing from the bowl. "One of the perils of living in a country where hereditary privilege is still an entrenched part of the political system."

"Yes, because it's _so_ much more meritocratic here."

"We're not perfect by any means, but we're nowhere near as bad as Gondor. We're a smaller country, with a smaller population, and a simpler, flatter political system."

"And a smaller hereditary political class," she added.

" _And_ a smaller hereditary political class, yes," he said, nodding. "Our Landed Houses don't cause anywhere near as much trouble as their High Families do."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," she warned. "What we lack in numbers, we more than make up for in effort. We still cause plenty of trouble in our own way."

"And some of you cause more trouble than others."

"I hope you're not talking about my family there."

"You _do_ have a reputation for being a bunch of rabble-rousing pains in the arse."

He must be talking about the peacock killer; would they _ever_ live that one down? "That was a long time ago. We're a pretty harmless bunch these days. Been a while since any of us found a good rabble to rouse." Not that her father didn't occasionally take his best shot.

"Says the woman who punches people."

"It was one person. And you know what he said." Or, at least, she assumed he did. She hadn't told him directly, but she'd told her father, who'd told his uncle, who surely must have told him in turn. He'd lifted her Ban—something he wouldn't have done if he hadn't known the whole story.

"Do you regret what you did?"

"Absolutely not," she said, without even thinking. "He had it coming. The man was a pig." And still was, by all accounts.

"For the sake of maintaining the peace between my Landed Houses, I won't comment on the matter."

"That's your elaborate, Edoran way of agreeing with me, isn't it?"

"I'll be generous and agree the Hamelmarks aren't _currently_ the most troublesome of my Landed Houses. I mean, your father seems determined to set the record for the number of times one earl can be suspended from the Hall for calling another one an effing arsehole, but apart from that, you're mostly fine."

"The Custodian needs to realize my dad's all bark and no bite," she said. "He likes to stand up and shout at people who piss him off, but he's a total pussycat underneath." Unlike some other members of the Hall she could mention. Like the Earl of Camelor, for one. He was all bark _and_ all bite—definitely a man to keep a close eye on. "And most of the people my father stands up to shout at are idiots who completely deserve it."

Amusement danced in his eyes. "Do I detect a slight lack of respect for the Lords of Rohan in your comments?"

"I've nothing against them. I've known a lot of them my whole life, and most of them are perfectly lovely people. I just don't always have anything _for_ them, either. And I won't show a person respect just because of what title they hold." She didn't add—not even him.

"Don't let my grandmother Morwen ever hear you say that. She would order her guards to have you flogged."

"I hear she's quite a woman."

A corner of his mouth twitched. "She's, uh, she's quite challenging, yes."

Challenging. Hmm. She wouldn't ask, since he'd used the word about his grandmother, but that sounded like House of Eorl speak for 'stuck up, arrogant pain in the arse'.

Colwenna appeared, carrying two small plates of food. "A light salad to start you off."

The King wrinkled his nose. "Salad? Really?"

"Don't worry, sir," Colwenna said—Solwen could almost feel her exasperation. "There's a nice steak dish for the main course." Carefully, she set the plates down. "Can I bring you and Lady Solwen anything else for now?"

"Thank you, I think we're all good," the King said.

Solwen grabbed her napkin to flick it out. "I'm fine, thank you."

With a nod and a smile, Colwenna withdrew.

"I think I need to take lessons in verbal subtlety from Colwenna," Solwen said, picking up her fork to spear some dressing-covered lettuce.

"Why's that?"

"Because I've never heard anyone use the word 'sir' with so much hidden meaning before."

"She might not be as bold as you Marchers, but she's still an extremely creative communicator in her own way."

"You must be very fond of her."

His smile was soft. "I am, yes. Some days, I honestly don't know what I would do without her."

More than some days, she suspected. "I'm guessing from her accent, that she's originally from somewhere in the southeast?"

"From Strone, yes."

That explained Colwenna's slightly standoffish behaviour—the two of them were from the absolute opposite ends of the kingdom, in both the physical and cultural sense. The Stronish tended to be as quiet and loyal as Marchers were mocking and bold. "She reminds me of my grandmother," she said.

"I know you were very close to her, so I'm going to assume you mean that in a good way."

"The best." Solwen paused while she chewed on her lettuce. "My grandmother was one of the kindest, most generous, most caring people I've ever met, but she didn't take shit from anyone about anything."

"From what I've heard, she was quite a woman. I'm just sorry I never had the chance to get to know her."

"To be honest, you probably wouldn't have liked her that much."

His fork paused over a cube of cheese. "Why's that?"

"Because she did the sarcasm thing almost at a doctoral level," Solwen explained. "Everything I know about it, I learned from her. She was amazing." She snickered, remembering one of her granny's best ever lines. "One time, she was arguing with this stuck-up arsehole from the Ministry of Labour, she burned him so hard and so bad, he went back to the office and put in for a transfer to another department."

That got her another eye-crinkling grin. She liked the crinkles. Almost as much as she liked the dimples.

He said, "While we're on the subject of family, remind me again, what are your half-brother's names?"

"Erland's the older one, Astalor's the younger."

"Right, yes. I knew the younger one had a Gondorian name. Your stepmother, she's from Anfalas, I believe?"

He seemed _awfully_ well-informed. It made her wonder what the security check had covered. "That's right."

"How does she like Rohan?"

"She misses the sea, and the luxury shoes, but other than that, I think she likes it just fine."

"Are we sophisticated enough for her delicate Gondorian tastes?" he asked.

"Not sure I would ever go _that_ far, sir."

"Are you saying Rohan isn't sophisticated?"

There was that touchiness again. "It isn't. Not _really_. I mean, we don't vomit in the corners of the Golden Hall or sleep in barns with our horses now"—not that she was aware of, at least—"but when you live abroad for eight years, you realize there's sophisticated, and there's _sophisticated_."

"I thought you Marchers liked things being simple and down-to-earth."

"We do."

"Then stop complaining."

He made it sound like a royal command. Or, Bema forbid, was this how a King of Rohan flirted? "I wasn't complaining," she said.

"It sounded like complaining to me."

"I was simply making an observation."

"Hmm, yes, you're rather good at those, aren't you?"

The slight teasing tone—that definitely sounded like flirting to her. It was all rather strange. She wasn't averse to being flirted with; she just wanted to be sure that was actually what he was doing. "I consider observation-making to be one of my primary skills."

"Lady Solwen, _do_ try to remember, I am the King of the unsophisticated place in question. You insult my kingdom, you insult me." His words were harsh, but she caught the mischievous glint in his eyes. Eyes she'd been sure were brown—why did they now look green instead?

"I'm sure His Majesty's ample ego is entirely capable of bearing the strain of an occasional deleterious remark."

"Deleterious? Wow. That's a big word for a girl from the March."

Irritation surged again. "Woman," she corrected.

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"I'm twenty-eight, Your Majesty. I haven't been a girl for ten years."

"Big word for a _woman_ from the March, then."

"Sixty-two points if you use it in a Lexico game."

A tolerant grin crept onto his face. "And here, I thought you didn't use elaborate language."

"I can when I have to."

"We'll make a politician out of you yet."

"Actually, if it's alright with you, I'd rather you didn't."

"No desire to follow in your father's footsteps, then?"

"Absolutely none at all." The mere thought filled her with horror. "If I had to sit in the Hall, I don't think I would be able to limit myself to just standing up and shouting at people."

"You said the punch was a one-time thing."

She grabbed the pepper mill to grind some pepper on her tomatoes. "I wouldn't punch anyone. I would just hit them in the face with a folded-up chair." Which was another form of punching, really…

"Just as well you have two brothers, then, isn't it? The older one, he's what, thirty-three?"

"Thirty-two."

"He should be ready to marry and have a family by now, surely?"

She was absolutely _dying_ to say—he would know more about that than she would. But she had the feeling it would be a lunch-ending remark. "There's no wife or children on the cards for him anytime soon."

"Still looking for Miss Right?"

"Mister Right, actually."

"Really?"

She nodded.

"We should set him up with Elfhelm."

Her fork froze halfway to her mouth; why the hell hadn't she thought of that? "You know, that's actually not a bad idea. Erland tends to go for the broody, navel-gazing type. They always turn out to be utter arseholes."

"If there's one word you will _never_ use to describe Elfhelm of Elgoll, it's navel-gazing." He frowned as he chewed on some cheese. "I don't think he even knows where or what his navel is."

"I even know how we would get them together."

"How's that?"

"You could invite both of them to lunch, then have Colwenna interrupt you at the last minute to tell you there's an emergency you need to deal with."

"That would be a little bit naughty, don't you think?"

She shrugged. "Naughty doesn't always mean wrong." As her punching incident had demonstrated. "And think of the feeding frenzy the tabloids would have. Not every day the heir to one earldom dates another."

"Not sure I see that as a good point. The feeding frenzies might be interesting to watch, but they're not much fun when you're the one the tabloids are feeding _on_. Trust me."

The recent gossip about his personal life was getting to him, then. Hardly surprising, given some of the more outrageous things the papers had printed. "I imagine they're not your favourite people right now. The tabloids, I mean."

"Their editors aren't doing anything to earn themselves a spot on my Yule card list, no."

"The perils of being a constitutional monarch. You can't just send in the troops to have them all arrested and killed."

He waved his fork at her. "Actually, in theory, I can." He stabbed the fork right through a tomato. "But I think if I did, I wouldn't be King for very long after."

She tutted at him. "Careful, sir. It's against the law to talk about overthrowing the monarch, remember?"

"You're funny. I like that."

"One does one's best with what one has."

He made a pained face. "And you're only a Hamelmark, so let's face it, that's not really an awful lot, is it?"

Cheeky, insolent, impudent fuck.

And he had the gall to complain that _Marchers_ were snarky?

The King leaned back in his chair, groaning slightly, rubbing his stomach.

"Is His Blessed Majesty perhaps regretting his portion decision?" Solwen asked. She didn't know how he'd had room for two servings of cake on top of the snacks, the salad and the main course.

He flashed a rueful grin. "In hindsight, His Blessed Majesty thinks it might not have been the smartest decision."

And it wasn't as if he could go for a nap to sleep it off—he had an appointment in twenty minutes.

Colwenna appeared, as discreetly as ever. "Just here to remind you, sir, you have a meeting at one thirty."

"Thank you," the King said. "It's downstairs, isn't it?"

Colwenna nodded. "In the King Aldor Room, sir, yes."

"Can you come fetch me in fifteen minutes?"

Another nod. "Of course, sir. I'll come back then," Colwenna said, and quietly vanished again.

"A King's work is never done," Solwen said.

The King sighed. "Lady Solwen, you honestly have no idea. Some days, I swear, all I remember is getting out of and back into bed. Everything in between is a blur."

"I'm surprised you managed to find the time to go for your ride this morning," she said, picking a thin mint from the tray.

"My diary is scheduled months in advance, years, even, in some cases, but my social secretaries know to build in as much flexibility as they can."

A prudent approach to take—she had the feeling that too much work and not enough play an unhappy Eomer would make. "What's your meeting for?" she asked, then hastily added, "If you're allowed to tell me, that is."

"I'm meeting with the Senior Comptroller of the Royal Household to review the provisional budget for next year."

"Sounds thrilling."

"You're a finance person,” he said, gesturing at her. "Maybe I should take you with me."

"Except I only work with payments. Budgets and forecasts are a whole different thing."

"Isn't it all just money, though?"

Bema, if she had a pound for every time someone had asked her a question like that. "Your Majesty, that's like putting the Firefoot in the same room as a child's bicycle and claiming they're both motorcycles, on the basis they both have two wheels," she said.

"So, not the same thing, then?"

"If you're ever bored, ask your Senior Comptroller to explain the difference between cash and accrual based accounting."

He snorted. "I think if I'm ever that bored, I need to give up being King and find something else to do with my life."

Yes, accrual accounting did that to people. "I assume that means you didn't study anything finance-related in school?"

"The Royal War College had a thorough and extensive curriculum, but it didn't cover anything to do with money."

"May I ask, how long were you at the War College for?"

"Two years."

She didn't know much about the College, but she knew enough to understand what a two-year attendance meant. "You took the Regular Commissioning Course, then."

He nodded. "For direct entry into the Army, yes."

"So, you wanted to be a soldier?" She gestured at the building behind them. "Before all this came along, I mean?"

"More or less, yes."

"More or less?"

He plucked a sugar cube shard from the tray, dropped it into his coffee and stirred it. "I was happy to give it a go, because it saved me from having to figure out what the hell else to do with my life, but it was also a question of expectation. The men in my father's family have always served in the military."

"And your mother's as well, surely."

"Of course. But the men of the House of Eorl have always taken on more of a representative or figurehead role. I intended to be a regular, full-time, working soldier. I didn't attend the War College just to spend two years learning how the Army works before I moved on to do the same thing with the Air Force instead."

"What do you think you would be doing now, if you hadn't become King?"

He shrugged. "Not really sure. I'd still have my seat in the Hall, obviously, so I'd probably be involved in some kind of political work."

As Earl of Aldburg, of course. She'd forgotten who he'd used to be before he'd inherited the Crown. "If things had gone differently, you might be one of the people my father stands up to shout at." Although, given the temper she'd heard the King had, he probably wouldn't hesitate to stand up and shout at her father right back.

The King grimaced. "He really needs to stop doing that, you know. I mean, I understand why he does it, really, I do, but this is 2020, not 1820. It's not how we're supposed to behave."

"He knows that. He's just passionate about what he does. When he shouts at people in the Hall, it's usually because he's trying to do something good, and some grandstanding moron's slowing him down."

"Speaking of things your father's passionate about…"

"Uh huh?"

"Can I ask, what did he think of the election results?"

In her head, a warning bell rang. This was touching on politics, which members of the House of Eorl weren't supposed to get involved in. "With all due respect, sir, are you even allowed to ask me that?"

"As long as I'm only asking for other people's opinions, yes. If I offered my own opinion, _that's_ when I would be in trouble." His smile was polite. "The law says I have to be neutral, but that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to be concerned."

And the election results on Thursday night would have given him and his Prime Minister plenty to be concerned about…

"If you'd rather not talk about it, I understand," he said. "Politics is always a sensitive subject."

'Sensitive' didn't quite cover it, in her opinion…

"It's not that I don't want to talk about it," she said. "But you're the King, and my father's a member of the Hall, and I don't think I should do anything that could be viewed as speaking for him. If you want to know what he thinks, it might be better if you ask him directly."

"Can I ask, then, what _you_ thought of the results?"

The warning chimes grew louder. "Interesting, would be the best way to put it, I think."

"A good interesting, or a bad interesting?"

"A bit of both." She chose her next words with scrupulous care. "I don't support the MNP, so I wasn't happy with how many ridings they won, but I _was_ glad the vote gave the Prime Minister's party the middle finger."

He made a 'continue' gesture.

She finished what was left of her coffee. "The March has been neglected for years. Decades, even. Everyone in Edoras treats us like the poor country cousin, but they don't realize how much money we actually put in the national coffers." She could feel her anger rising, as it always did when she talked to non-March people about these things. "Did you know, we pay more per capita in taxes than the Eastfold does? And receive less than half of what the Eastfold receives in return?"

"I didn't, no."

Sighing, she pushed the anger away. The problem wasn't his fault, and he was only a constitutional King, so there wasn't really much he could do about it. "I just hope the Prime Minister has the sense to hear the warning she's been given."

His expression turned pensive again. "Lady Solwen, if I share some information with you, will you give me your word you won't share it with anyone else?"

"Of course." Her stomach lurched; what the hell was he about to tell her?

"I can't give you any details, because I don't have them yet myself, but the Prime Minister has already told me, she intends to do something good for the March. Something that should go some way to fix that imbalance you just mentioned."

Bless his thoughtful, kingly heart. Biting down on a smile, she said, "You mean the big investment thing she's planning?"

"You _know_ about it?" he said.

"Not officially, no. But Holger Selgreve called my father just before midnight on Thursday, talked to him for a good thirty minutes. My dad's barely been off the phone since. He and the Earl of Amerwen are out meeting with people today, and they're heading up to Isendale tonight to meet with some people from the West March Economic Forum tomorrow." She shrugged. "You don't have to be a genius to figure out what that means."

His pensive look returned. "Do you know what role your father's going to play?"

"I think he's going to act as the government's bridge, put Harbrand in touch with some people and organizations that might not usually be willing to work with her."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words, no."

"So, how do you know that's what he's going to do?"

She felt her cheeks redden again.

He narrowed his eyes. "Did you do something naughty?"

Naughty, no. Ever-so-slightly devious, yes. "If I tell you how I know, will you promise not to tell him?"

"That depends. Did you break any law?"

"I don't think so, no."

"What do you mean, you don't _think_ so?"

Enough with all this back and forth; better to just come out and tell him. "There's a ventilation grille in my father's office. The air and heating duct that feeds it also feeds the bathroom next door."

He blinked in disbelief. "You _eavesdropped_ on your father?"

"Well… yes. I suppose I did." Sitting on the loo, of all places.

He laid his head in his hand, started to stroke his thumb and fingers along his temples.

"I just wanted to know what was going on," she said, aware even as she spoke of what a lame defense that was.

"Oh, I'm quite sure you did."

She burned with embarrassment, all the way from the tips of her ears to the tips of her toes.

"Well, whatever role your father ends up playing in the Prime Minister's plan, I'm sure he'll be a great help," he said. "I don't know him personally, but I can imagine he has a lot of extremely useful connections."

"He's certainly who I would go to," she said.

He finished his coffee, placed his cup down and ran his finger around the fine rim until it made a light singing sound. "The Prime Minister wants me to help as well."

"Oh?"

"She wants me to spend more time in the March. And do a few more March-based engagements."

Should he even be telling her this? It was a highly confidential matter—not some random piece of news he could casually share with a guest over lunch. And a guest with no security clearance at that. Yes, her father was an earl, but that didn't entitle _her_ to know a damn thing. "I guess that makes sense."

He sighed. "There's that not being able to lie thing again."

"I'm not lying."

"But I get the feeling you don't think the PM's request is a good idea."

"On the contrary, I think it's an excellent idea." She snagged another thin mint—she could eat her whole body weight in them. "I just think you should be careful about how you approach it."

"How so?"

Hesitating, she said, "With all due respect, sir, don't spend more time in the March just because you've been told to, or just to make the PM look good." Or himself, for that matter. "Spend more time in the March because you're interested in what's going on in the region, and because you actually care."

"I am. And I do."

"It shouldn't be a problem, then."

He toyed with his cup again. "I, uh, I was actually thinking, I might go to the March for the Midsummer break."

"Really?"

"We usually go to Aldburg, but I thought a change of scenery would be nice."

"Did you have any thoughts on where?"

"Probably Isendale. Or somewhere in the surrounding region."

That made sense. Isendale was the largest and richest city, so more likely than anywhere else in the March to have the kind of house he would need. "The best estates are in the northwest. That's where everyone with money lives. They like their privacy, so the houses are really spread out, and there are lots of security guards and fences. I'm sure you'd find something suitable there."

"Is that where your family holding is?"

"We're just beyond those suburbs, right at the edge of the city." She smirked. "People keep trying to build more houses, but my father won't sell them the land."

"Your holding must be quite large."

"Large enough."

"If I do spend the break in the March, perhaps you could show me around?" he half-suggested, half-asked.

"Of course. I'd be honoured." And it wouldn't be a huge imposition, since she'd been planning to spend the break there herself. She couldn't break her promise to her grandfather.

The door creaked open; Colwenna returned. "It's almost time for your meeting, sir."

Dropping his napkin on the table, the King rose from his chair. "Lady Solwen, I enjoyed this very much, but I'm afraid duty calls."

Solwen followed his lead, rising herself. "Thank you for inviting me. I enjoyed this very much as well." Smiling, she turned to Colwenna. "The food was amazing. Please thank the chef and the kitchen staff for me." She knew she was breaking protocol there—one was never supposed to tell a royal host how good a meal had been, because of _course_ their food would always be good—but she didn't much care. Where she came from, you thanked the people who made your meals for you.

Colwenna dipped her head. "Thank you. I certainly will."

"Colwenna will see you back to the garage," the King said. He hesitated, brows furrowing slightly, as if he wanted to say something else, then smiled again and strode away.

She watched him go, appreciating how good his ass looked in his jeans.

There was genuine warmth in Colwenna's smile. "If you'll follow me, Lady Solwen, I'll show you the way."


	36. Chapter 36

The Shadowfax was right where she'd left it.

She checked the odometer; it hadn't changed from when she'd parked up. So, Brendal hadn't taken it out over lunch to put some sneaky kilometres on it. Not that she would mind if he had.

She found her jacket up on a hook, and her helmet tucked away on a shelf, both equally undisturbed. As she grabbed her jacket to slip it on, Brendal emerged from his office, sipping tea from a grime-covered mug.

"So, how was your lunch?" he said.

"A lot more pleasant than I expected. Great view, great food." She grinned at him. "And the company wasn't too bad either."

"And what type of lunch did it turn out to be?"

"Sorry?"

"Before you went up, you weren't sure if it was going to be a date lunch, or a business lunch."

The problem was, she _still_ wasn't sure. Yes, they'd touched on some political matters, but they'd talked about her family and career as well. Did that count as business, or pleasure? "I don't think it was either of those. I think it was just a social lunch."

"A _social_ lunch?"

"A social lunch, aye. You know. Between friends. Just two people casually getting to know each other."

He took another sip of his tea. "Aye, except if it was that kind of lunch, Lord Elfhelm would have joined you, instead of pulling the least convincing cop-out I've ever seen."

She'd forgotten all about Elfhelm's stunt. "I heard about that. Was it as pathetic as it sounds?"

"Lass, pathetic doesn't even begin to describe it. He might as well have just told the King he'd left his bloody hair curlers on."

She could only imagine. "I'm not sure I like the idea of Elfhelm trying to set us up."

"You said you enjoyed yourself."

"I did."

Brendal shrugged. "So, no harm done. If nothing more comes of it, or if you don't _want_ anything more to come of it, you had a nice lunch on the King's private terrace, cooked by one of Rohan's best chefs. Not a lot of people in town who can say that."

"I suppose." But the Elfhelm business still irked her.

"And if something _does_ come of it, you can name your first child for me," he added.

Shock (and a hint of fear) rippled through her; what kind of horseshit nonsense was _this_? She'd met the King twice, had lunch with him once, and now, people were picking out _baby names_ for them? This was _exactly_ why she hadn't told her family or close friends about their meeting here in the garage last week. "Brendal, no offense, mate, but I think you need to dial your imagination down a wee bit," she said. "We've met twice, and had one lunch. It's not like we're getting engaged."

"I shouldn't start a wedding registry for you at the local Mearas dealership, then?" he asked drily.

Bema fucking save her. "You keep talking like that, the only thing you'll need to start is a notarised copy of your own will, because I'll fucking _murder_ you in your sleep."

"Away and shite. Your grandpa would never let you kill me."

"My grandpa would help me get rid of your body." And, come to think of it, so would her father and brothers as well. Or, Erland, at least. Astalor, maybe not. He wouldn't have the stomach for it.

Brendal huffed. "I thought Haradoc liked me."

"He _does_ like you. But he won't put up with you giving me hassle. He's a wee bit protective of me that way."

"You _do_ know, I was just yanking your chain?" he said.

"Course I do. And if this was any other man in the world, I honestly wouldn't care. But teasing like that's how rumours get started. And I think your boss is probably dealing with enough shitty rumours about his love life already. If he wakes up tomorrow to find some ridiculous claim about him and me splashed across the front page of The Record, _you're_ the one he'll come looking for first." And not looking in a kind way.

Brendal sighed. "Fair point, aye."

Her turn to give him a hard time. "Besides, I don't see why we should name our first child for you," she said.

He scrunched his face at her. "I introduced you."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes I bloody well did. Last weekend, right here," he said, pointing a finger at the floor.

"Brendal, I met the King ten years ago, at my father's Confirmation ceremony. The Lord Chamberlain introduced us." And she sure as shit wasn't naming any theoretical child-to-be after that pompous, stuck-up old prick.

"Except, he wasn't the King back then. And you told me you spoke to him for barely a minute."

"It still counts as meeting him, though."

Brendal glowered at her. "You know what you can do?"

"What?" she asked, fairly sure she knew the answer already.

He pointed to the main door. "You can take yourself all the way to fuck. _That's_ what you can do."

Grinning, she zipped up her jacket and grabbed her lid to pull out her gloves. "As much as I'd love to stand here trading insults with you all day, I should really get going."

Grinning back, he went to press the button to bring up the door. "You remember how to get out?"

She nodded. "I take the left fork at the first junction, right?" She wondered where the other fork went.

"That's right."

"Then yes, I'm fine," she said, pulling her helmet on. She didn't bother with her earplugs—she was only going to the other side of the hill.

"See you soon," Brendal said. "When you talk to him next, say 'hi' to your grandfather for me."

For the second time in as many weeks, Brendal watched the Shadowfax ride away.

Like _hell_ he hadn't introduced them. If anything ever came out of this, he wanted full credit. _And_ a front row seat at the wedding.

He froze as the door leading into the Palace squeaked open, half-dreading who it would be. Probably Colwenna, come to give him that bollocking she thought he was due. To his relief, it was only Vonnal. "Shouldn't you be upstairs with the King?" he said to the guard.

"He's in a meeting with the Senior Comptroller. Guthlaf and Godhild are with him. I'm on a break until three." Vonnal gestured at the main door. "Is that her away? The woman the King had lunch with, I mean?"

"Her name's Lady Solwen. And yes, it is."

"Sorry," said Vonnal, looking sheepish. "Didn't mean to sound rude. I just didn't remember her name."

"Aye, you're fine. Don't worry." Brendal finished his tea and set the empty mug on a shelf. "What brings you down here? You forget something from your ride?"

Vonnal nodded. "My phone. I can't find it anywhere. I know I had it when we came in, so I'm retracing my steps, checking if I put it down somewhere."

Brendal strode into his office, came back out with a mobile phone in his hand. "Would it be this phone, by any chance?" he said.

Vonnal sighed in relief. "That's the one, aye." He came forward to take it.

"Found it in the men's bathroom," Brendal said. "Was going to put the word around in the morning, see if anyone knew whose it was."

"No worries there. Just glad I didn't actually lose it. It's got all our special numbers and software on it. Fastmer would've ripped me a new one."

"That he would, yes." As the King's last trip to the Pass had proved, ripping people new ones was one of Fastmer's primary skills…

"Thanks for your help," Vonnal said. He strode to the door; halfway there, he paused and turned back.

"Problem?" Brendal asked.

"Brendal, can I ask you a question I probably shouldn't ask?" Vonnal said.

"I don't see why not." It wasn't as if he never did that himself.

Vonnal gestured at the main door. "Lady Solwen," he started, then checked behind him, making sure nobody else was listening in. "Is she dating the King?" he whispered.

Eru and all the Valar save him. "Vonnal, lad, I've honestly no _fucking_ idea."

"She seems quite nice."

"She is."

Vonnal hesitated, then added, "And she's from Isendale, isn't she?"

"That's right."

"Would be quite good, wouldn't it?" Vonnal's voice dropped to a barely audible murmur. "To have someone like her as Queen?"

This was _exactly_ the problem Solwen had meant. "Vonnal…"

The bodyguard held up a hand. "I'm not trying to spread gossip. I know it's none of my business, and I'm only talking to you about it because I trust you. I'm not going to talk to anyone else. I just…" Vonnal broke off, sighing. "I just think it would be a nice thing. If the King married someone like that." He wrinkled his nose. "Instead of some fancy Gondorian lady."

"A lady like the King's grandmother, you mean?"

Vonnal's grin was sheepish. "Like her, aye." Hastily, he added, "Not that there's anything wrong with fancy Gondorian ladies, of course."

"You'd just rather not have one as Queen?"

"Not really, no."

Brendal sighed, thinking of how much trouble the Old Queen could be. "You and me both, lad. You and me both."

The house was quiet when she returned.

But the front door hadn't been locked, so somebody must be at home. Unless Astalor had gone out for the day and forgotten to lock the door behind him. He could be a little bit stupid that way.

"Anyone home?" she shouted from the front hall. She didn't expect her father to answer—he would be up in Isendale by now.

"Through here," called Erland's voice from the back of the house.

She found him in the kitchen, smoking a joint, wearing an apron over jeans and a tee, cooking up an army-sized batch of his infamous, cold-curing stew.

Scowling, she waved the smoke from the joint away. "You _do_ know that's illegal down here?"

"Only if you get caught."

"Which couldn't possibly _ever_ happen."

He half-rolled his eyes. "I only smoke them in the house, and never when anyone else is at home."

" _I'm_ home."

"Yeah, but I know you won't rat me in." He put the joint down and picked up a spoon to stir the stew. "I know too many of your secrets. Would just rat you in straight back."

She wondered, which of her secrets would he spill the first?

She laid her helmet on the table, next to an open laptop and a large pile of books. "Studying again?" she said.

He nodded. "Exam's next weekend. Figured I should hit the books while I can."

"I assume from the fact you're cooking stew instead of actually studying that it's all going swimmingly well?"

"I needed a mental health break. It's not the most exciting material in the world."

"What you get for working in Finance."

"I _like_ Finance. And it's not as if Treasury's any more thrilling."

"Least I can move up my career ladder without having to take a massive exam." And not just any massive exam—one of the world's most gruesome exams—five hours long, with an average pass rate of forty percent. "If I had to do what you're doing, I think I'd find another career."

"We can't all be as sensible with our career choices as you."

"Apparently not." Although, she hadn't always made the most sensible choices herself, as her rapid departure from Mordor proved.

"How was your ride?" He reached into an overhead cupboard to pull out the salt. "Nediriel said you were taking the 'fax for a spin."

She wondered where Nediriel was. Out with Astalor, maybe. "Was good. Weather was nice, road was quiet." She realized then, she'd been gone for hours. But she hadn't come home to a police car parked in the driveway, so he obviously hadn't worried too much. "I hope you weren't worried. I should probably have called."

He shrugged. "You're a grown woman. I figured you'd just decided to stay out for longer."

"I met someone while I was out for my ride. Another biker. We went for lunch."

"A male someone, I assume?"

How much more should she tell him? She trusted him—more than anyone else in the world—but was there really anything else to tell? She _had_ met someone, _had_ gone for lunch with him. The only notable part was who, and she didn't want to share that just yet. Their father could prise information out of Erland just as well as he could prise it out of her. "You assume correctly," she said.

"And when you say you went for lunch…"

"I mean we _actually_ went for lunch. We didn't go back to his place to fuck." Not that Erland would judge if she had…

"Somewhere nice? For lunch, I mean?"

She thought of the food, and the heart-stopping view from the King's terrace. "Somewhere amazing."

"Anywhere I would know?"

"I, uh, I don't think so, no."

He sampled the stew, grabbed the salt to sprinkle some in. "And was this someone you might want to see again?"

"I'm not really sure," was her honest reply.

"Something not quite right about him?"

Something not quite right about him. Bema. That was an interesting way to put it. "How about, I just say, he's not the type of man granny would have approved of?"

He put down the spoon to reclaim the joint. "Granny's dead, Solly. You don't need her approval."

"Yeah, except I don't think grandpa would approve of him, either."

"That's more of a problem. Not that you need his approval either, of course, you don't need anyone's, but it's a practicality thing."

She snickered. "It's hard to date someone when they have a shotgun pointed at them."

Erland went to the fridge to pull out some wine and add a splash to the stew. "Do you think he likes you? The guy you had lunch with, I mean. Not grandpa."

"Hard to say for sure."

He rolled his eyes at her. "You straight people are too damn complicated."

"Yes, because you're an absolute fucking delight when it comes to figuring out your love life."

"I might not have my love life figured out, but at least I know when a guy wants to have sex with me."

"Oh, I'm quite sure he'd be more than happy to have sex with me." And, according to what the tabloids were saying, with every other single woman in Rohan as well. And maybe some of the married ones, too.

"Are you going to let him?"

She remembered how nice the King's dimples were. And what beautiful eyes he had. And how firm his ass had looked in those jeans. And how long it had been since she'd last gotten laid. "I think so, yes."

Erland heaved a knowing sigh. "You're going to make him work for it, aren't you?"

" _This_ guy?" She grabbed the wine to take a quick swig. "You bet your Marcher arse I am."

God, what a tedious meeting that one had been.

No mention of cash versus accrual accounting, but it had still been boring enough to make Eomer doubt his life choices.

Next time, he might ask Fenbrand to tackle it for him instead. Or one of Fenbrand's ambitious lieutenants. Fenbrand was probably going to retire some time in the next couple of years—it would help to have a succession plan ready.

In his sitting room, he flopped onto the couch.

With her usual impeccable timing, Colwenna appeared. "Don't get too comfortable. You have a phone call with the new Lord Lieutenant of Sunhold in twenty-five minutes. Then you're opening an exhibition at the Gallery of Modern Art at seven."

The call would be dull, but the gallery thing should be nice. He hoped it wouldn't run too late—he still had a small mountain of paperwork to finish.

"Can you pick out a suit for the gallery thing?"

"I've already picked out three, with matching shirts, shoes and ties. I think the dark blue one would work best."

"Is that my Hergild?"

"It is, yes."

His favourite suit—the perfect balance of comfort and style. He should have Colwenna order another. "Then, let's go with that."

"Do you want to look at what I've chosen to go with it?"

"No need. I trust you."

She hesitated, then said, "Then, would you allow me to say something I maybe shouldn't say?"

"Colwenna, a few weeks ago, you _slapped_ me," he said. "I think our relationship is well past the point of needing permission to say difficult things to each other."

"Can I ask, then, what your intentions for Lady Solwen are?"

"Do you mean, am I planning to see her again on a personal level?"

"Yes."

"Would it worry you if I was?"

She sighed. "To be honest, a little bit, yes."

"You don't like her," he said. He'd picked up on that at the lunch. Colwenna's manner to Solwen had been polite but cool, although she'd thawed a little bit by the end.

"I don't know her well enough to not like her. I'm sure she's very nice. I just find her manner slightly vexing."

Eomer couldn't help but grin. "A bit too bold for your tastes?"

"A little bit, yes."

"Annoyed me a bit at first as well, but by the end of the lunch, it was actually growing on me. She's not pretending to be something she isn't just because I'm the King."

"I wouldn't have thought many women do."

"You'd be surprised. Most women I meet, they won't let their guard down and just be themselves."

"Let their guard down," Colwenna repeated. "Is that a euphemism for taking your clothes off?"

Eowyn wasn't the only one with the pile of well-gnawed bones, it seemed. "Colwenna, for both our sakes, I'm going to politely ignore that."

"I'm just surprised you didn't add Lady Solwen to your list of conquests," she said, disappearing into his closet. "I half-expected to come back with the next course to discover you'd already decided to finish the lunch in private."

" _And_ that."

Not that he wouldn't have, given the chance. He was willing to bet good money all that Marcher bravado would make for a _hell_ of a time in the sack.

Just not this week. But some time in the near future. Maybe over the Midsummer break.

He should ask Fenbrand tomorrow, if his team could find a house in Isendale close to the Hamelmark holding…


	37. Chapter 37

**Tuesday May 26, 2020**

Solwen's father turned his smile on her. "So, what's on your plate for today?" he said, carving out a knob of butter to spread on his toast. "Got anything interesting planned?"

On the couch in the morning room behind them, Astalor huffed into his tea. "She won't be looking for work," he muttered, but loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.

That made three caustic comments in as many days—Astalor obviously didn't like that she didn't have to work, but he did.

But that was Astalor's problem, not hers. "Not my fault you haven't earned enough money to be financially independent yet," she said.

"If you're so independent, why the hell are you living here?" her brother shot back.

"He makes a fair point," their father said.

Bema. Not this 'paying your own way' bullshit again. In the six years she'd lived abroad, she hadn't needed so much as a _penny_ from him. And now, he was giving her shit for living at home, after barely a month back in town? She should have stuck to her original plan, and rented a place of her own instead. Or moved in with Elisend for a while. "You say the word, and I'll go," she said. All the way back to bloody Mordor if she had to.

Nediriel poured herself some more coffee. "Nobody's going anywhere," she said. She pointed at her husband. "So, you can just be quiet for once." She turned to look at the morning room, aiming her next words at her son. "And you can take yourself to your study class. You fail your final exam again, you can forget the trip to see your cousins."

Astalor put his mug down, rolled off the couch and vanished into the hall to gather his things together. He was back a few minutes later to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. But only his mother.

"Don't I get a kiss as well?" their father hollered as Astalor vanished.

Astalor's answer was to slam the front door.

Solwen grinned. "That sounds like a 'no' to me." She finished her toast. "But to answer your question, no, I don't have anything interesting planned."

"I was going to head into town," Nediriel said. "See if I can find a pair of shoes to go with my new dress." She gave Solwen a hopeful smile. "You're welcome to come with me."

What was the kindest way to refuse? She liked Nediriel, they'd always gotten on well, but shopping for shoes and handbags wasn't her thing. Especially when it involved the kind of upscale boutiques Nediriel favoured. The salespeople loved her stepmother, but always looked at her as if she'd just dragged in a turd.

Her father chuckled into his tea. "I swear, the look on her face, it's like you just asked her if she wants to be lobotomized."

"I'm just not much of a shopper, okay?" The post dropping through the letterbox provided the perfect distraction. She pushed up out of her chair. "Let me go grab the mail."

There were only three letters on the mat—surprising, given the hefty thud they had made. She realized why when she picked them up. One was a utility bill, but the other two were solid and heavy. Identical in size and shape, but one was addressed to her, the other to her older half-brother. Setting the other two letters aside, she turned hers over to tear it open, shocked to see the envelope had been sealed with wax, and the disc bore the arms of the House of Eorl. No wonder the damn things were so heavy.

She broke the seal and pulled out the letter—actually more of a card—to read it. "To Lady Solwen Hamelmark," she murmured, scanning the elegant, formal script. "The Meduseld Palace requests the pleasure of your company at His Majesty's Midsummer Celebration, to be held in the Golden Hall, from 7:00pm to 10:30pm on Wednesday 1st July. Semi-formal attire. Respond to the address below by Friday 5th June."

What the ever-loving _fuck_ was this? Nobody ever invited them to the King's parties. In the ten years he'd now been an earl, her dad had never once attended the King's Midsummer event. And it wasn't because he and Nediriel wouldn't go—it was one of the high points of the Edoran social calendar, covering a mere, lucky two hundred guests. Was this because she'd had lunch with him? But if this was about the lunch, why had they invited Erland as well? Did they think she needed a chaperone—someone who could stay at her side to make sure she kept her right hook at bay?

She grabbed Erland's envelope, jogged up the stairs to his room and knocked on the door. He was supposed to be studying for his exam again, but he would want to be interrupted for this. "Erland, It's Solwen," she said.

"Come in," he called out.

She found him at the open window, a cup of coffee in one hand, a half-smoked joint in the other, blowing smoke out into the air.

Erland and his bloody weed—almost as bad as her and her tea. "You told me you didn't smoke them when anyone else was at home."

He shrugged. "I might have lied about that." He stubbed the joint out and set it aside. "What's up?" he said.

"This just came for you in the mail," she said, holding out his letter.

He took the heavy envelope from her, frowning as he saw the wax seal. He cracked it open, pulled out the letter and scanned through the text.

"The fuck is this?" he said, waving the invitation at her.

She held up her own card. "I got one as well. But it's only you and me. There wasn't one for Astalor. Or for Nediriel and dad."

"Maybe theirs will come tomorrow."

Possible, but it seemed unlikely. If the invitations had been written and sent out together, they would have been processed and delivered together. If only two had arrived, it was because only two had been issued. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I guess the polite thing would be to accept."

She snorted. "When have we ever worried about being polite?" Which, admittedly, might be part of the reason they'd never been invited before.

"Just seems a bit strange." He went to his desk to tap a key on his laptop, bringing it out of hibernate mode. "We're not part of the King's social set. We never get asked to these things."

It was time to confess. "Yeah, about that," she said.

"About what?"

"If I tell you something, will you swear on granny's grave not to breathe a word to a soul?"

He nodded. "Scout's honour, I promise."

"I mean it, Erland," she warned. "What I'm about to tell you, you can't tell anyone else, okay? Especially not dad." If their father found out—the mere thought made her shudder.

"I give you my word, my lips are sealed."

Heart thumping, she took a deep breath for courage. "You remember on Sunday, when I came home from my ride, I told you I'd had lunch with someone?"

"Uh huh?"

"The guy I had lunch with…"

"Yeah?"

No point in dragging it out. "It was the King."

He blinked like a lizard. "Sorry?"

"The man I had lunch with. It was the King."

He snickered and wagged a finger at her. "That's a good one. Should try that on dad."

"I'm serious, Erland."

"The _King_?" he repeated. "The guy who lives in the big place at the top of the hill?"

"King Eomer, yes." It felt strange to say his name. "We had lunch on the terrace of his private apartment."

"His private apartment? At the _Palace_?"

"Yes."

"Solly, how the _fuck_ did that happen?"

She sighed. "Long story. Don't ask. It involved a motorbike. That's as much as you need to know."

"But that was only on Sunday. _Two days_ ago."

"Yeah?"

"And you told me you didn't fuck him."

"I didn't!"

"Then, why the hell is he inviting you to a party when he's only known you for two days?"

Time to tell him the whole sorry story. "He's known me for more than two days."

"Dad's ceremony doesn't count. That was ten years ago. Nobody remembers it. Not even dad."

She did, but not for the usual reasons. "I'm not talking about that."

"What, then?"

"I met the King last Sunday when I went to collect my bike."

"When you—" he grunted and briefly squeezed his eyes shut—"okay, I think you need to tell me this from the start."

She went to sit on the edge of his bed. "Remember when I moved here, and the bike's electrics were still playing up?"

He nodded. "And you called whats-his-name to ask him for help."

"Brendal."

"Him, aye."

"Turns out, Brendal works for the King. He looks after his motorbikes."

"At the Palace?"

"No, dummy. At the train station. Of _course_ at the Palace."

"Okay, okay," Erland muttered, holding up deflecting hands. "Keep your hair on."

"When I went to pick up my bike, I had to go to the Palace garage," she said. "And while I was there, the King turned up."

"Is that when he invited you to lunch?"

"No, that was…" she scrunched her nose and waved him off. Why was this whole thing so bloody complicated? "Like I said, it's a long story."

"So, let me get this straight." Erland paused to scrub his face. "In the space of a week, completely by accident, you managed to meet the King twice, and have lunch with him once?"

When he put it like that, it sounded like the plot of a romance novel. "Yes."

"Solly, I swear, you have to be the luckiest, accident-prone woman on the whole planet."

"If it's any consolation, I'd much rather just win the lottery twice in a row."

"And it only explains why he's inviting you." He waved his invitation at her. "Why the fuck is he inviting me?"

"Two theories."

He made a 'continue' gesture.

She held out her thumb. "He thinks I need a chaperone to make sure I don't take a swing at another guest."

"That was one time, ten years ago. People need to get over themselves."

Thank you, Erland…

She held out her index finger. "He's trying to set you up with his best friend." The nicer theory, and the one she preferred.

"The King knows I like guys?"

"I might have mentioned it to him, yes."

"Who's his best friend?"

"Elfhelm of Elgoll. The heir to the earldom."

"I know the name, but I've never met him. He good looking?"

"In a cheeky, disasterish, sort of way, yes."

"Disasterish?"

"You'll understand when you meet him."

Sighing, Erland scanned his invitation again. "So, are we going to accept?"

"I guess we should?" If they refused, they would never, _ever_ be invited to a King's party again. And she would probably never get the chance to find out if the King's arse looked as good out of his jeans as in them.

"Do you want to go to the party?"

"I'm not entirely opposed to the idea."

He rolled his eyes. "See, this is what happens when you live in Gondor for a year and a half, you end up not being able to give a simple bloody answer to a simple bloody question. Do you want to go to the party? Yes or no?"

"I'll go if you go."

"Bema, what are you, _twelve_?"

"I'm not going on my own. Not to something as fancy as this. I won't know anyone."

"You'll know the King."

"I had lunch with him once. I don't think that really counts as knowing." And he would be busy with all the other guests—he probably wouldn't have time for more than a quick 'hello' at the door.

"The better question is, why would _I_ want to go? I won't know anyone either. Not even the King."

At least she had an answer for that. "You won't meet hot disaster guy if you don't."

He huffed a sigh. "Fine. I'll go." He raised a warning finger. "But I reserve the right to bail out whenever I feel like I'm done. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Are we going to tell everyone else? About the invites, I mean?"

"You think they'll mind? That we've been invited and they haven't?"

"Dad won't. Astalor won't." He threw the invitation onto his desk. "But Nediriel will."

"She'll be hurt."

He typed in his password to unlock his laptop. "Course she will. She's been the Countess of Hamelmark for ten years, hasn't been in the Palace once, apart from dad's Confirmation ceremony. She's going to wonder what we've done right that she's done wrong."

"She hasn't ever done anything wrong."

Erland snickered. "Except marry dad."

"We could tell them we're going somewhere else," she said. "A Midsummer party at a friend's house."

He shook his head. "They'd want to know where, so we'd have to make up a whole cover story. And to be honest, I'd rather not lie. It always ends up biting me in the arse, being far more hassle than it's worth."

Erland was right; lying would probably do more harm than good. Especially since their father was so good at picking lies apart—leave so much as one tiny loose thread, he would unravel the whole cover story in less than five minutes. "So, we tell them the truth?"

"Either that, or we both decline the invitations, and then there's nothing to tell."

She was tempted by the idea. It would be less hassle in the long run, especially since the party dress code was semi-formal attire, which meant she would have to wear a cocktail dress and high heels. And she didn’t currently own a cocktail dress and high heels. Although, Nediriel could help her with that.

But saying 'no' seemed like the cowards way out. And she'd never thought of herself as a coward. "Let's do it," she said. "Worst case scenario, we eat some nice food, drink some nice wine, meet some new people, bail after a couple of hours. What's the worst that can happen?"

He smirked. "Thelden Camelor could turn up, and you could get arrested for punching him all over again?"

"Highly unlikely. Don't think His Majesty likes Thelden Camelor any more than I do."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Not explicitly, no." At his raised brow, she added, "Let's just say it was more about what he _didn't_ say than what he _did_ say."

"So, we're going to the King's party, then?"

"We're going, yes."

He raised a finger. "But one other thing."

"What?"

He pointed the finger downstairs. "You get to tell Nediriel and dad."

 _She_ wasn't a coward. But he bloody well was…


	38. Chapter 38

**Wednesday May 27, 2020**

A 'sensitive matter', Harstan's message had said.

As he marched along the Queen's Hall with the list and the letter clasped in his hand, trying to rush without looking as if he was rushing, Fenbrand cursed the Senior Comptroller's predilection for understatement. This wasn't just sensitive; this was bordering on being a disaster.

Relief washed through him as he saw the door to Colwenna's office was open. As much as it pained him to admit it, she was far more qualified than him to deal with such a calamitous matter. The only other person he could ask about something like this was The Princess Royal. He might still have to, depending on what Colwenna thought they should do.

He rapped on the door to let Colwenna know he was coming, paused for a moment and pushed the door all in.

She looked up as he entered, smiling, not warmly, but politely at least. He didn't need warmth—he didn't really like Colwenna any more than she liked him—but he _did_ need her expertise.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Colwenna, but I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?" he said.

"Of course, yes," she said, setting aside what looked like a personal planner—hers, he assumed, since he and his team managed the King's engagements. Or, maybe it _was_ for the King, to track his special, 'personal' matters. How dearly Fenbrand would love to read through it. "Come in, please," she added.

He stepped in, carefully closing the door behind him.

"So, what can I help you with?" she said.

"Something extremely sensitive. Something involving the King."

Her face dropped into a frown. "Nothing serious, I hope."

"It could be, yes." Instead of explaining, he stepped forward to lay the list on her desk.

She picked up the piece of paper to read it. "What's this?"

"This is the list of people who will represent the Princely House of Dol Amroth at the oath anniversary banquet in August."

She scanned the list; as she neared the bottom, her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Mother of Bema," she murmured. Her head came up, eyes going wide in alarm. "Fenbrand, please tell me this is a joke."

"I wish it was."

"Did they send this to you?"

He shook his head. "The banquet is being organized by the Lord Chamberlain's office"—a decision he didn't agree with; he thought his own people would do a much better job—"so it went to the Senior Comptroller."

"But Harstan chickened out and gave it to you."

"He doesn't know His Majesty as well as you or I do, Colwenna. He was smart enough to realize he couldn't handle this by himself."

"There is that, yes." She scanned the list of names again. "What on _earth_ is Prince Imrahil thinking? Doesn't he understand how much offense this could cause?"

"I'm sure he does. But I believe he's also trying to rebuild some bridges." He held out the second piece of paper—the far more interesting part.

"What's this?" Colwenna said, reaching out to take the piece of paper from him.

"A letter. Signed by the Prince of Dol Amroth himself." As the wax imprint at the bottom—a stylized swan wearing a coronet—could attest.

Colwenna scanned the handwritten letter, reading the words under her breath. When she was finished, she scrunched her face. "Fenbrand, what on _earth_ does this even say?"

He'd had a somewhat similar reaction himself. "It's in the formal phrasing of the Gondorian Court, which I'm not _entirely_ comfortable with, but if I parse it correctly, I believe Prince Imrahil is trying to tell us Princess Lothiriel would like to make amends with the King."

"Sorry?"

"I think she's coming to apologize, Colwenna."

"Well, it's about bloody time." She read the letter again, nodding, slightly at first, then more surely. "Yes, I think I see it now. Bema, Fenbrand, I know I'm going to sound like a Marcher when I say this, but would it _kill_ these people to just say what they mean?"

Fenbrand couldn't help but smile. "It does make one's own vocabulary feel rather lacklustre in comparison, doesn't it?"

"I'm quite happy to have lacklustre vocabulary, thank you," she said tartly. She handed the letter back. "What are you planning to do?"

"I was actually hoping to take your input on the matter."

"So, Harstan chickened out on you, and now you're chickening out on me?"

He preferred to think of it as sharing the risk; some coaxing flattery might be needed. "Nobody in the Palace knows the King as well as you do, Colwenna. If anyone can figure out how we should handle this, it's you."

"It's going to upset him. I can tell you that."

"Even with the letter?"

"The letter makes it worse, I think. I can't be sure, because he doesn't talk about it a lot, not even to me, but I think His Majesty coped with what happened by telling himself Lothiriel was just a b"—she broke off, grimacing—"just an unpleasant young woman."

"But unpleasant young women don't come back to issue heartfelt apologies later."

"Not in my experience, no. And you know as well as I do, the King is a fair-minded man. If she's coming to apologize, he'll feel honour-bound to at least listen to what she has to say. That's going to be awfully stressful for him."

"But potentially with a good outcome, yes?"

"Oh, absolutely." She opened a drawer to put the mystery planner book away; Fenbrand made a mental note of which drawer it went into. "I'm not saying we shouldn't allow them to meet. I think it's high time the two of them cleared the air. Should probably have done it a long time ago. I'm just saying the whole thing will need to be very carefully managed."

"When do you think we should tell him?"

She sighed. "That's the part that worries me, Fenbrand. He's got an _awful_ lot on his plate right now. You know even better than I do how busy his diary is. We've all the usual events, plus the State Opening of Parliament, and his birthday party, and the Midsummer party, and the lunch with the Old Queen. The Thenwis thing is bothering him far more than he's letting on, and between you and me, I think he could do with a little less sisterly nagging about his marital status."

"I'm sure Her Royal Highness nags with the best of intentions."

"She does, yes." With a soft smile, Colwenna added, "She just needs to realize, sometimes, with His Majesty, it's easier to persuade him with love than with fear. She needs to use the carrot instead of the stick."

Or the ruler, it seemed. And how Fenbrand wished he'd been a fly on the wall for _that_ moment. He wasn't entirely sure it was an appropriate way to treat a monarch, even when you were that monarch's sister, but it must have been a sight to behold—a crowned head, receiving a right, royal, impromptu thrashing. And a well-deserved one, if the rumours were true. The Countess of Camelor; how _utterly_ shocking. "Do you think we should tell her?" He wielded the letter. "About this, I mean?"

Colwenna nodded. "Absolutely. She'll be furious with us if we don't. And she'll know better than either of us exactly when and how we should tell the King."

"I'll arrange for us to speak with her, then."

She jerked her chin at the door. "No time like the present. She's in her office, catching up on some correspondence. I'd be happy to take it to her, if there's something else you need to be getting on with."

And leave Colwenna to claim all the credit for solving the problem? Fenbrand thought not.

Smiling, he stepped back to open the door. "Now works for me if it works for you."

The Princess's head whipped up in alarm. "I'm sorry. They're doing _what_?" she said.

"They're bringing Princess Lothiriel with them, Your Highness," Colwenna calmly explained.

"Are they _mad_? After what that b—after what she did? After what she _said_ to my brother?"

Fenbrand stepped forward, presenting the supporting letter almost as a peace offering. "Colwenna and I believe she's coming to _apologize_ , ma'am."

Scowling, the Princess snatched the letter to read it. Halfway through, she broke off, grimacing. "Fenbrand, what does this utter gibberish even say?"

"Flowery, isn't it?" Colwenna drily said.

"Would value the opportunity to articulate her deep sense of regret with the hope of fostering mutually beneficial communication and reconciliation," the Princess recited. "That's just…" She massaged her brow. "I'm not sure I know what to say."

"Lothiriel wants to apologize to the King so they can put their falling out behind them and be friends again," Colwenna quickly translated.

"Why in Bema's name didn't they just write that?"

"Your Highness, from their perspective, they probably think they did," Fenbrand said.

"Bloody Gondorians," she muttered. "Can't even say they want to apologize without turning it into a bloody four act event."

Which made Fenbrand wonder what the _actual_ apology would look like…

"We need to tell the King," Colwenna said.

Hastily, so as not to be left out, Fenbrand added, "But we're not entirely sure how and when."

The Princess handed the letter back. "As soon as possible, I think. He's going to be angry, have some kind of idiotic, impulsive response, threaten to abdicate, try to cancel the whole banquet, or something equally blockheaded. Once he's through that initial reaction, he'll need some time to get it all straight in his head, figure out where and when to receive Lothiriel, and what he's going to say when he sees her."

"It's just, he's dealing with an awful lot right now," Colwenna said, repeating her earlier concern. "We thought it might be better to wait until a few of the more immediate issues have passed."

"That makes sense, yes," the Princess said, nodding. "Let's get through his birthday party, and maybe the Midsummer party as well."

" _And_ the lunch with the Old Queen."

The Princess winced again. "Gods, that as well, yes. That on its own will make him want to run for the hills."

Fenbrand added, "And perhaps, by the time the Midsummer party is done, we might also have some clarity on Miss Colafell's intentions?" The Hall would rise for the Midsummer break the day before—if Thenwis hadn't lodged her petition by then, she would have to wait until September.

"Fenbrand, I would _dearly_ love for that to be the case."

"So, we're agreed?" Colwenna said, looking from the Princess to him. "We'll keep this quiet for now, and inform the King some time after the Midsummer party?"

The Princess nodded. "I think that's for the best, yes. Maybe when we're down in Aldburg. After he's had a week or so to relax."

Was this the right moment to tell the Princess and Colwenna about the research the King had asked his team to do in the March?

No, Fenbrand quickly decided. It absolutely was not. The Princess likely wouldn't take the news well—it was a topic the King could broach with his sister himself.

"I'll advise the Senior Comptroller," Fenbrand said. "Have him respond to his counterpart in Dol Amroth to confirm we've received the guest list, and that we have no objections for now."

"Just make sure Harstan knows to keep this quiet as well," the Princess warned. "If Eomer finds out about this from someone other than one of us, we won't need a fireworks display at Midsummer, because the King will provide them all by himself."


	39. Chapter 39

**Friday May 29, 2020**

Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry.

Hurrying around the Palace seemed to be all Fenbrand did these days. This time, along the wooden-floored glory of the King's Hall instead of the Queen's.

At the end of the Hall, only Godhild was guarding the door. Where in Eru's name was her companion? A shocking slip, and one that could endanger the King—Fastmer was going to hear about this.

He nodded at Godhild as he passed, aiming for the door to the King's office.

He knocked lightly, waited a moment and pushed the door in. As he paused to give his usual, from-the-neck bow, he realized two things that made his heart sink—the meeting wasn't just with him, and he was apparently the last to arrive. He scanned the room, taken aback by who he saw waiting—the King, the Princess Royal, Colwenna, Algrin and Fastmer. Including himself, six of the most important people in the whole Palace. This was a serious matter, then. At least Fastmer's inclusion in the group explained the single guard at the door—the head guard was protecting the King from in here instead.

The King was at his desk, not seated, but standing behind it, leaning against the sill of the massive bay window, jacket off, tie off, shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands jammed in his trouser pockets. As he closed the door behind him, Fenbrand aimed a smile the King's way. "Apologies for keeping you waiting, sir. I was in the wine cellar when your message arrived." Arguing with the Comptroller about how many bottles of wine they should buy for the Midsummer party.

"Quite alright, Fenbrand," the King said, waving the explanation away. "My fault for springing this on you at the last minute."

"So, now we're all here…" the Princess Royal prompted.

The King nodded. "I know you're all busy, so I'll get straight to the point." He pushed away from the window. "I've decided I'm going to spend the Midsummer break in Isendale this year."

Surprise rippled around the room; Algrin and Fastmer exchanged a shocked look.

Fenbrand was as surprised as the others. Not by the King's decision, of course, just that he'd finalized it so soon.

"Isendale?" the Princess Royal repeated. "Why on earth are you going to spend the break there?"

"Because the Prime Minister asked me to," was the King's simple response.

"She what?"

Colwenna let out a knowing sigh. "It's because of the election, isn't it?"

The King nodded. "Harbrand's worried about the mood in the March. She's working on a wider plan, I can't share that with you right now, of course, it'll be in my Speech from the Throne, but she thinks it'll help if I spend some more time in the region."

"But we always go to Aldburg for the Midsummer break," the Princess Royal said. She wrinkled her nose. "I don't want to go to Isendale."

The Princess wasn't the only one. Fenbrand had been to the March a few times, wasn't terribly fond of the place. He would go if he had to—it was part of his job—but he would much rather stay here in Edoras.

"I know you don't," the King said. He came round his desk to perch on the front. "Which is why I'm going to Isendale on my own."

"Sorry?"

"You go to Aldburg as planned," the King told the Princess. "Take whoever you want with you. Invite some old friends from school, or the riding crowd, or the town set, or your Women's Network thing. Make a nice, civilized, relaxing girls' trip of it."

"And what, you'll go live in a cave in the March? Dress in leaves and animal skins, roam the forests with a spear, kill your food with your bare hands?"

The King grinned. "Something slightly more cultured than that. But yes, I'll probably take Elfhelm with me, make a bit of a boys' trip of it." Looking at the other five guests in turn, he added, "And I'd like to keep it lowkey, so my plan at the moment is to take the absolute minimum number of staff."

"How minimal do you mean?" asked Fastmer, frowning.

"Whatever is the fewest number of people I can survive with. Guards, obviously, I know you won't let me go without those. Someone to manage the house. Someone to deal with clothes and meals. A driver." The King shrugged. "I'm not really sure. To be honest, I was hoping to have all of you address that for me."

"Will you want to do any entertaining while you're there?" Colwenna said.

The Princess Royal made a strange snorting sound; the King shot her a silencing glare. What that was all about, Fenbrand wasn't quite sure.

"No entertaining, no," the King said. "I'm already throwing three huge parties this summer. That'll be more than enough."

"And if yours is going to be a boy's trip, you'll forgive me if I don't volunteer," Colwenna said. "I think I'd rather stay here, or go to Aldburg with your sister."

One of the few things he and Colwenna agreed on, it seemed…

"You'll make sure I have someone else?" the King asked.

"Of course."

"What about excursions, sir?" Fastmer asked. "Would you want to take any of your motorbikes with you?"

"Absolutely, yes," the King said, nodding. "There's some roads in the March I'm dying to try, so I'll definitely take the Firefoot and the SXR with me. Oh, and probably Brendal as well. He grew up in Isendale, so he'll know all the best roads."

Time for Fenbrand to find out his fate. "What about secretarial duties, sir? You won't have any official engagements, but you'll still have your despatch box and all your usual correspondence to deal with. Will you need me to accompany you?" he said, fervently hoping the King would say 'no'.

The Gods delivered; the King shook his head. "If you want to come, you're welcome to come, but I don't see a need. As long as someone can deliver and collect my papers, that should be more than enough. I can always call you if I need you."

"Of course, sir," Fenbrand said, breathing a silent sigh of relief. He would encourage Colwenna to go to Aldburg, stay here in Edoras, have the Palace more or less to himself. He was already planning all the books he could read…

"Have you decided where you're going to go, sir?" Fastmer said. "We don't have a property in the March, and the Midsummer break is only five weeks away. If you want to have somewhere ready for July 3rd, we'll need to get moving."

Clearing his throat, Fenbrand stepped forward slightly. "My team has been looking into that." To the King, he said, "We've identified some properties we think could meet all the usual requirements."

Frowning, the Princess Royal turned on her brother. "You talked to Fenbrand about this already? This isn't something that just came up today?"

"It came up on Friday, Wynna. When I spoke to the Prime Minister the morning after the election. She asked me to think about it, so I asked Fenbrand to do some research for me."

"You never told me what Harbrand said."

The King let out a small sigh. "Wynna, I know this may come as a dreadful shock to you, but I'm not legally required to share every conversation I ever have with you."

Biting her lip, Colwenna looked at the floor.

"It would just be nice if you had told me," the Princess stiffly said.

"I did tell you. Five minutes ago."

"That's not—"

Algrin cleared his throat, stepping on the royal squabble before it could get off the ground. "I think our first priority is to finalize a location." He looked to Fenbrand. "Once you have a list of houses ready, Fastmer and I will go to the March to check them out, see which of them meet our security requirements."

"Of course," Fenbrand said. "I'll have one to you by Sunday night."

"Perfect, thank you."

The King brought his hands together, signalling the meeting was over. "If we're all in agreement, let's get on with it, then."

One by one, the guests made for the door. The Princess Royal first, as precedence demanded, departing quickly, without so much as a nod to her brother. As he'd feared, the King's decision had upset her. Or, rather, his not sharing it with her earlier had. Colwenna followed, then Algrin, then Fastmer, who paused at the door. "If you don't mind, Your Majesty, I'll send someone up to cover for me out front. I'd like to go to my office, review our rosters for July. If we have to cover another location, we're probably going to need more people on active duty."

"Not at all, no," the King said, strolling around his desk to pull out his seat. "Go right ahead."

Fastmer nodded and withdrew.

"Was there anything else you need from me, sir?" Fenbrand asked before he departed himself.

The King smiled. "As it happens, there is, yes." He sank into his seat. "When you're whittling down your list of houses, by any chance, can you concentrate on the suburbs in the northwest? I hear it's the best part of town. It's where I'd prefer to be located."

"Of course, sir. I believe several of the properties we've looked at are in that part of town. I'll have my team refocus their efforts."

"Thank you." The King smiled again. "And that'll be all for today."

"Yes, sir." Pausing to give another small bow, Fenbrand showed himself out of the room.

Godhild was still at the door, and still by herself, although, given Fastmer's request, probably only for a few minutes.

"Sir? Godhild quietly said as he said.

He paused and turned back. "Yes, Godhild?"

"You told me I should keep you in the loop if I heard anything interesting, sir."

Fenbrand checked over his shoulder, but apart from them, the King's Hall was empty. And the door to the King's office was closed—nobody was listening in from that direction.

"I did, yes," he said. "You have something for me?"

Spine rigid, eyes fixed straight ahead, she gave a quick nod. "From Sunday, sir. When the King went for his ride." Her voice dropped to a barely audible murmur. "He met a woman while he was out."

"A woman?"

Godhild nodded. "She came back to the Palace to have lunch with him."

This was definitely interesting news. "Do you know who the woman was?"

"I’m afraid I don't, sir. I'm not part of the riding detail, so I didn't actually see her."

"Who was part of the team that day? Did anyone mention that?"

Another nod. "Dernbrand, Nedris and Vonnal, sir. With Vonnal leading."

Where had Fastmer been, he wondered? "Do any of them know the woman was?"

"Dernbrand didn't really see her. He was on third position, so he had to stay with the bikes." She pulled a slight frown. "I think Vonnal knows who she is, but when I raised it with him later, he lost his temper with me, told me it was none of my business and to stop asking questions I shouldn't ask."

Yes, that was something Vonnal would do—the man had a moral streak as wide as the Snowbourn Bridge. Small wonder Fastmer was grooming him to be his successor.

"I think Colwenna also knows, sir," Godhild quietly added.

Colwenna would, if the lunch had been on the terrace. The King's rooms were her domain—nobody else got anywhere near them.

Sadly, Colwenna was no more likely to spill the King's secrets than Vonnal was. Especially not to him. "You'll let me know if you hear anything more?" Fenbrand said.

"Of course, sir."

A door at the end of the King's Hall opened. In the distance, Guthlaf appeared—time to finish the conversation. "Thank you, Godhild. You've been extremely helpful."

Fenbrand turned and strode away, thinking over what Godhild had said. He nodded at Guthlaf as he passed; the guard smiled politely and nodded back.

Who could the woman possibly be? And why had the King had lunch with her? Had he planned to meet her out on his trip? Had the lunch been for business, or pleasure?

Another vexing problem to solve.

As if the Thenwis Colafell problem wasn't quite vexing enough. Or the problem with Prince Imrahil's daughter.

Mother of Bema. What a summer this was proving to be…


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ties into events of Chapter 28, which I had to update very slightly to make them connect correctly. The update was minor - adding one more sentence - nothing large enough that you need to re-read chapter 28 if you don't want to.
> 
> Also, I had absolutely nothing at all written for the birthday party scene, so I'm starting that now completely from scratch, which means it'll be a while before the next chapter goes up. I'm in full-on writing mode, though, so it shouldn't be too painful :)

**Saturday May 30, 2020**

At ten o'clock precisely, Eomer's phone started to ring.

As he reached for the handset, he tried not to grin—he'd been looking forward to this phone call all week. He waited for the third ring then picked up the handset to say, "Your Majesty, good morning, how are you today?"

At the other end of the line, Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, High King of Gondor and Arnor, the Second of his Name, said, "Your Majesty, good morning, I'm very well, thank you for asking. How are _you_?"

" _Excellent_ , thank you." Today, an honest, heartfelt response, not just the standard social reply. Talking to Aragorn _always_ put him in a good mood.

"Happy birthday," Aragorn said. "How does it feel to be thirty-four?"

"So far, not really any better or worse than it felt to be thirty-three." Or even thirty-two, for that matter.

"Wait until you hit forty. It all starts to catch up with you then."

Fortunately, that was still a few years away. "How is everything in Gondor?"

"Apart from the weather in Minas Tirith right now, bloody awful, hasn't stopped raining all week, it's very well. How is everything in Rohan?"

"Pretty good. The press is keeping me on my toes, but nothing new there. Other than that, I can't really complain."

"Not even about your cousin's petition?" Aragorn said.

He should have known Aragorn of all people would be up on the Thenwis thing. "Truthfully, not even about that, no. It's annoying, and I would much rather she wasn't doing what she's doing, so it's giving me a _little_ stress, but deep down, I know it's not a serious threat. It'll all work itself out in the end," he said, hoping he sounded as if he believed what he was saying. "I just have to hunker down, wait for the legal process to run its course, even if it takes a few months."

"Let me know if there's any way I can help."

"Appreciate that, thank you." But even if there was, Eomer wouldn't ask—the last thing he needed on top of all his other problems right now was to trigger a constitutional crisis over a 'foreign interference' complaint.

"And how is your lovely sister these days?"

'Lovely' wasn't the word he would use. "Still terrorizing everyone in a ten mile radius wherever she goes. _And_ still trying to run my life for me."

Aragorn let out a snort. "You think Eowyn's bad, just wait until you get married."

"That reminds me, how is Her Majesty these days?" When he was talking to Aragorn, he could never bring himself to say the Queen's name.

"Pregnant."

Relief and elation flooded through him—this was by far the best news he'd heard all year. "That's _fantastic_ ," Eomer said, grinning from ear to ear. And hopefully, this time, with a son—the heir apparent Aragorn so desperately needed. "Congratulations to both of you. When is she due?"

"The middle of November, we think. But it's not public news yet," Aragorn warned. "We won't announce it until the first week of July."

"My lips are sealed."

"You can tell Eowyn. We trust her as well."

To be trusted by Aragorn—a rare and worthy honour indeed. "She'll be as thrilled for both of you as I am." And would no doubt mention it to him whenever she could, to not-so-subtly remind of his own failure in that department.

"So, I hear you're having a party tonight," Aragorn said. "For your birthday, I mean."

"At the Ritz, yes." Eomer sighed and rubbed his face. "To be honest, I'm not in much of a party mood. I could have done with having a quiet night in instead." Especially since he had three other engagements today, the first one in just under an hour. He would have barely enough time between the third one and the party to come home, shower and change.

"Why do I get the feeling your cousin's petition is troubling you more than you want to admit?"

"Maybe a little." Eomer confessed. "But it's not just that. It's a couple of other things as well."

"Anything I can help with?"

"The general election delivered a few surprises I could have done without." Not that the results were really his problem—they were more the government's mess to clean up—but if the situation in the March went bad, the fallout could potentially damage the Crown.

"I saw that, yes," Aragorn said. "Do you think it'll come to a referendum?"

A topic they shouldn't really discuss. But this was a personal off-the-record call between two friends, not an official, recorded call between two allied Heads of State. "I hope not. I spoke to the Prime Minister last week, she's putting some plans in place that should hopefully calm some of the feelings that led to the vote turning out the way it did."

"We've had some discussions about it here, what it could mean for Gondor," Aragorn revealed. "Between you and me, Your Majesty, it's not a demand for independence that worries us the most."

"It's if Dunland gets in on the act, starts throwing around reunification proposals." Eomer was sure that was coming—he was just surprised nobody up in Sharflow had publicly proposed it already. Maybe the Dunnish President was holding his tongue for now, waiting to see what way the sticks would fall.

"That's our main concern, yes. They've never given up their claim to the March, they might look at this as an opportunity to retake the region by political means instead of by force."

"I'm hoping it won't come to that."

"It's a tricky problem. But ultimately, not really yours to solve."

That whole 'only a constitutional monarch' business again; he wondered if Aragorn felt sorry for him. "It isn't, so."

"So, it can't be why you don't want to go to your own birthday party. There's something else troubling you, I think."

Eomer sighed. "Everyone's nagging me to get married again."

"Hmm," was all Aragorn said. Which was probably Aragorn-speak for 'you actually do, but I know you don't need me nagging you about it as well'.

"I know I have to," Eomer added. "It's just…" he broke off, sighing again.

"You're trying to make the right choice, not just for you, but for your people and country as well."

" _Exactly_."

Aragorn understood. Aragorn _always_ understood.

"Could I offer some advice on the matter?" Aragorn said.

Oh, boy. Could he _ever_. "You've been happily married for almost eight years. Of course you can."

"Don't _ever_ compromise," Aragorn said. "Don't marry someone you're not sure you love just because you're under pressure and you think she'll make a good Queen. Hold out for the right woman. And when you find her, don't let anyone or anything get in the way. Put your foot down. Make it stick."

That final piece of advice—how much was Aragorn speaking from experience there? Had he put his foot down on Elrond, either figuratively or literally?

"That's what I keep telling people," Eomer said. "But nobody seems to understand, how hard it is to find that right woman."

"Can I make another suggestion? One you almost certainly won't want to hear?"

This sounded bad. But he wouldn't ever refuse Aragorn's advice, no matter how hard it might be to accept. "Please, yes."

"When you're trying to find something, Your Majesty, it always helps if you look in the right place."

"I thought I was."

Aragorn sighed. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, in this situation, another man's home is absolutely _not_ the right place."

"Not entirely sure what you mean."

"I mean, the little _thing_ you have going on with one of your earl's wives."

The tips of his ears turned so hot Eomer was sure they would burst into flames. "She's getting divorced," he said. As if that was really any defense.

"But rightly or wrongly, she's not someone you'll ever be able to marry, is she?"

Eomer swivelled in his chair; rain was streaking down the bay window—was this the weather from Minas Tirith arriving? "She isn't, no." Seorsa was thirty-six, a mother of two young children, and the soon-to-be ex-wife of a wealthy and powerful earl. Rightly or wrongly, she would never be Queen Consort material. And it wasn't as if he was in love with her. He liked her, enjoyed spending time with her, but he didn't pine for her when they weren't together.

"I'm sure she's a wonderful person, but if it can't ever go anywhere, you should probably break it off."

"There's not really anything to break off. It was just a little bit of fun."

Aragorn's tone was sympathetic. "I understand. But if you're serious about getting married, the bits of fun should probably end."

Which was more or less the same thing Eowyn had told him. "Should I ask, how you even know?" And Bema, if Aragorn knew, who else knew? Was it going to be on the front cover of all the papers next week?

"I _am_ the High King of Gondor, you know. I have one of the best information-gathering systems in the west."

"Yes, but barely anyone in Rohan knows what Seorsa and I were doing."

"Are you sure about that?"

Not anymore, he bloody well wasn't. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me who it was who told you?"

"All I can tell you is, some of your people talk more than you think, and some of my people listen more than you know."

"Your Majesty, do you have people _spying_ on me?" Eomer asked drily.

"Certainly not," Aragorn said, shocked by the mere suggestion. "We're just extremely good at stringing small pieces of information together."

Eomer grabbed a pen and a post-it note to scribble a short reminder to meet with Algrin again. If they had a leak in the palace, they needed to find it. "It wouldn't be so bad if you gave us some good gossip to gather up in return, you know. You never do _anything_ wrong."

Aragorn laughed. "Your Majesty, rest assured, I do _plenty_ wrong. And if you ever need any evidence, I'm sure my father-in-law would be happy to help you."

Eomer couldn't help but grin. "That reminds me, how _is_ Lord Elrond these days? I haven't spoken to him since the wedding."

"He's very well, thank you for asking."

"You _do_ realize, he's maybe ten percent of the reason I'm not married yet?"

"Oh?"

"I think if I had to have a father-in-law like yours, I'd rather just stay single instead."

Aragorn's sigh was exasperated. "Eomer, please tell me you're not avoiding marriage because you're _scared_?"

"Course I'm bloody scared," he blurted.

"Of what?"

"Of everything," Eomer said. "Of having a nightmare father-in-law. Of having a nightmare _mother_ -in-law. Of choosing the wrong woman. Of not being a good husband. Of not being a good father. Of doing something stupid, and messing the whole thing up beyond all hope of repair."

"Knowing you as well as I do, I find it very hard to believe you would be anything other than a wonderful husband," Aragorn said. " _And_ a wonderful father. You're too good a man to be anything else. And I think you know that as well as I do."

But being a good man wouldn't stop him from accidentally doing something stupid. "How did you know?" Eomer quietly asked. "That the Queen was the woman you wanted to marry, I mean?"

"You know how, when you have friends or relatives come to visit, even though you love them, and you're pleased to see them, after a while, you want them to leave? So you can have your space back again?"

Like when Aunt Morghild's children came to visit. Three days was usually all he could take before he wanted to run for the hills. "Yes?"

"With Arwen, I _never_ wanted her to leave. And when she _did_ have to leave, I used to count the days until I could see her again. I always wanted to be with her, and I was always excited to see her."

"I don't think I've ever felt that," Eomer said. "I can't remember ever meeting a woman and being desperate to see her again."

"Desperate's a rather strong word. What about eager?" Aragorn suggested.

Eomer thought of all the women he'd met, and all the secret guests to the palace. Had he ever been eager to see any of them again? He wasn't quite sure. What did eager even mean? Was it wanting to have another dinner with Lady Solwen? Should he ask Aragorn what that meant?

Aragorn sighed. "I can practically _hear_ your brain spinning."

"Some of us have to figure these things out the hard and painful way, sir. We can't all be born with your natural talents."

Aragorn's tone was desert dry. "Your Majesty, when it comes to women, from what I've heard, you have _plenty_ of natural talents."

Eomer's ears burned again. "Just not the kind of talents that easily lend themselves to marriage, it seems."

"Nothing a little adaption can't fix."

"You've given me a lot to think about," Eomer said, leaning back in his chair.

"In a productive way, I hope."

"Always."

"In that case, I hope you won't mind, but I'll have to leave this here. Would love to chat for longer, but the Royal Council is meeting this morning. You know what a stickler for punctuality my Lord Steward is."

'Stickler' didn't quite cut it—Lord Denethor made Fenbrand look disordered. "Thank you for calling. I know how hard it is for you to carve time out of your schedule." And for him to carve it out of his own as well.

"I certainly will. Oh, and before I forget, there should be a birthday gift waiting for you. Nothing fancy. Just a little minding from one King to another."

"You don't have to do that, you know."

"You're right. But I did."

"I assume we'll see both of you at the Oath banquet? Or, will Her Majesty want to change her plans because of the baby?" Eomer hoped not—he was looking forward to catching up with them, and this banquet had been almost a year in the planning.

"The pregnancy's not giving her any trouble at all so far, and we know how important it is for both of us to attend, so I don't see it being a problem. The only thing she won't be able to do is drink."

"We'll make sure she's well supplied with all the juice and water she needs." He made a mental note to check with Eowyn if anything on the banquet menu was something a pregnant woman couldn't eat. Highly unlikely—Eowyn was on the ball with that kind of thing, but it wouldn't do any harm to ask. "And if there's anything else she wants, anything at all, you just have to ask. Her comfort will be a priority for us."

Aragorn sighed. "Speaking of comfort…"

"Yes?"

"How are _you_ feeling about the Oath banquet?"

A rather strange question. "Fine at the moment. It's going to be a big event, maybe the biggest we've ever staged, but other people are doing all the work. I just have to put on a suit, turn up, shake some hands and give a nice speech."

"I didn't mean that."

"Not following you."

"I meant about the guest list."

Now, Aragorn's meaning was clear. "You mean because I have to send an invite to Lasgalen." Eomer sighed. "I'm not happy about it, would rather not, but if it has to be done, it has to be done."

Silence for a few moments. "That's a healthy attitude to take," Aragorn said in a cautious tone. But his wife _was_ Elvish, so it was only natural that he wouldn't feel as hostile to Lasgalen as Eomer did.

"I think so, yes."

"We'll talk more about the banquet soon," Aragorn said. "I have to go now. Enjoy your party. And your birthday present."

"Thank you, I will. Give our best regards to the Queen." He couldn't quite bring himself to say 'love'. "Hope the weather clears up soon. You enjoy the rest of your weekend."

Eomer placed the handset back in the cradle.

Should be a birthday gift waiting for him. But where? Or with whom?

The guards at the door might know. Or, if not them, either Fenbrand or Colwenna.

Pushing up from his seat, he went to his office door, pulled it open, and almost fell face first over a massive box. It was wrapped in glittering green and gold paper, and decorated with tiny, glittering 'Happy Birthday' banners.

Problem solved.

Someone cleared their throat. He looked up to find Fastmer smiling politely at him. "Someone from the Gondorian embassy delivered it this morning, sir. They left _extremely_ specific instructions on where we should put it, and when."

"Did they really?" So, the ankle-snapping ambush wasn't Fastmer's subtle, 'fuck you' revenge message, then. He grabbed the envelope from the top of the box to open it and pull the card out. The note inside was in Aragorn's script. _Something to help you get your knee down_ , it read. At least, Eomer assumed that was what it read—Aragorn didn't have the neatest handwriting.

He didn't bother trying to haul the box into his office. Instead, he tore the wrapping paper away—carefully, so as not to make a mess Colwenna would chew him out about later—revealing a plain cardboard box underneath. The lid was taped down, but lightly enough he could tear through the tape with his hands. He pulled the folds of the lid apart and lifted out the layer of packing foam on top.

Eomer sucked in a breath. It was hands down the most beautiful present he'd _ever_ seen.

A leather, one-piece racing suit. And not just _any_ leather, one-piece racing suit. A hand-made, hand-stitched, top-of-the-line, Dunedain suit, made from the finest, supplest Gondorian leather money could buy, with bi-elastic panels, seamless aluminium plates, adjustable composite protectors, a nanotech removable liner and an integrated suit-to-boot system that he already knew would work with his nicest boots. If he went to buy this in a store, he would have to drop at least five thousand pounds. Maybe more, depending on what options he chose.

Grasping the shoulders of the suit with both hands, he drew it out of the box, shaking it gently as he raised it to persuade the lower half to unfold. He held the suit up to his neck, trying to gauge how well it would fit.

"The person who delivered it, sir, they said to tell you, it's made to measure, should fit you like a glove," Fastmer said.

Eomer was halfway to asking, how did the High King of Gondor know what his personal measurements were, then decided, on second thoughts, it would be better if he didn't find out. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said. He was grinning like a kid on Yule morning, but he couldn't help it—he'd always wanted to own a Dunedain suit. And he even liked the colour scheme—graphite black, with white and Rohan-green highlights.

Fastmer sighed. "I assume this means you'll want to fit in some time at the track?"

"An hour or so, yes. But no immediate rush. Maybe sometime this week or next." He would have Colwenna call the track owner, see what they could set up. "Or, I could wear it on a ride to the Pass…"

"That you could, sir, yes."

Eomer had to give it to Fastmer—the man knew how to keep his irritation in check. He was probably waging a mental war in his head, trying to decide which king he wanted to brutally murder first…

A flash of gold at the cuffs caught his eye. "Would you look at that," he said to Fastmer, holding out one of the sleeves to show it to him. "He even had my royal monogram stitched into the leather. Wasn't that thoughtful of him?"

"Extremely, sir, yes. I mean, if nothing else, think how easy those'll make it for us to identify your body."

Not this again. "Fastmer…"

"Yes, You Majesty?"

Eomer sighed. "Nothing." It wasn't a fight worth picking. And he knew Fastmer meant well.

He checked his watch; he had to leave in forty minutes.

Surely, that was enough time to try the suit on?

Aragorn sighed as he set the phone down. That last part hadn't made sense. Did Eomer _really_ not know what he'd meant?

A knock on the door.

"Enter," Aragorn called out.

The door swung open; Lord Denethor swept in, wearing one of his immaculate suits, his leather folder tucked under his arm. "Your Majesty," he said, giving the usual solemn bow. "The Royal Council awaits your pleasure."

Pleasure, hmm. That wasn't the word Aragorn would use. He rose from his chair, grabbing his jacket from the hook to pull it on and button it up. Denethor moved aside, bowing slightly again as Aragorn strode through the door.

Out in the hall, Aragorn paused. "Lord Denethor, I have a question."

A jaw in the Lord Steward's muscle twitched. "Could this perhaps wait until after the Council meeting, sir?"

It could, but Aragorn was going to ask nonetheless. Sometimes, Denethor needed to be gently (or not-so-gently) reminded of who was Steward, and who was King. "The guest list for the Oath anniversary banquet in August."

"What of it, sir?"

"When we met with Prince Imrahil on Monday, did he or did he not tell us he had added his daughter's name to their guest list?"

"He did, sir, yes."

"And has he or has he not sent that guest list to Rohan?"

Denethor opened his folder, flipped through it until he found what he needed. He tapped on the page. "I have the note right here, Your Majesty. Prince Imrahil told me, he sent his list to Edoras on the twentieth of May. A week last Wednesday."

"In their diplomatic pouch?"

"I would assume so, sir, yes."

"So, it would have arrived in Edoras the next day?"

"Of course."

Hmm.

Aragorn couldn't believe Eomer wouldn't have seen the list yet, after more than a week. If it was being delivered to Gondor, yes, but the Rohanese Court was far more efficient than his—there was no _way_ it wouldn't have been processed and handed on by now.

He'd been shocked, when Imrahil had explained what he'd done. And more than a little bit angry as well, since he'd done it without Aragorn's knowledge or permission. But a read of Imrahil's letter had brought him around, as had the Prince's impassioned pleas on his daughter's behalf. By the end of their conversation, he'd come to share Imrahil's view—that giving Lothiriel the opportunity to apologize to Eomer was _absolutely_ the right thing to do.

But either Eomer didn't yet know she was coming, or he was suffering from the worst case of sticking his head in the sand Aragorn had _ever_ seen.

Neither answer was pleasing to him.

It was all _terribly_ strange.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, this is my inspiration for [Eorwena](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/07/22/article-0-1AF116AB000005DC-383_634x934.jpg)

As birthday parties went, this one hadn't been too bad.

Smaller than his thirtieth. Larger than his twenty-fifth. Less debauched than his coming-of-age.

His twentieth birthday party, Bema. What an absolute _epic_ that night had been. Theodred had organized it—everything from the army of strippers and the adult-sized bouncy castle to the beer pong competition and the swimming pool full of giant inflatable whales. Why inflatables, and why whales instead of horses, Eomer still wasn't sure. At least horses would have been patriotic.

Tonight's party had been far more sedate. Eomer hadn't missed the strippers—he was getting a bit too old for that, and it wasn't really the kind of thing a monarch should do—but he was fairly sure the bouncy castle would have gone down a storm. He suspected Eowyn would have taken one look at it and started throwing people out of her way—small children and old women alike—in her rush to get into the thing. Her thirtieth was coming up soon; maybe he should hire one for her.

The wine had been good, the food had been good, the cake had been absolutely outstanding—a four layer chocolate caramel fudge concoction where every slice should have come with a voucher for either free dental care or a liposuction session. He'd eaten two huge slices of it so far himself, was hoping to put in a third by the end of the night. And maybe another few drinks as well.

The only blot on the evening so far had been the presence of his cousin. To his surprise, Thenwis (but not her mother) had taken them up on her invitation. He'd had minimal interaction with her so far, welcoming her at the front door with the usual gentle hugs and double cheek kisses, accepting her birthday wishes with grace, asking after her grandmother's health, politely directing her to enjoy the food and the free bar. He'd more or less steered clear of her since. If Thenwis had come here to pick a fight or give him a 'special' birthday present, he hadn't seen any indication of it.

He leaned back in his chair, well fed and well watered, happy to finally have five minutes to himself after two hours of chatting and mingling to just people watch and take in the mood. Eowyn was in one corner, holding court in a gaggle of friends, hands dipping and weaving all over the place, obviously telling a ridiculous story, given how much the friends were groaning and laughing. Elfhelm was in another corner, pretending to listen attentively while Lady Sunver prattled at him, with a pained, nodding smile on his face that told Eomer his best friend just wanted someone to kill him right now.

Elfhelm cast a glance his way, his numb-eyed, pleading expression practically screaming 'Please come and rescue me from this silly old biddy'. Eomer smiled sweetly and gave him a wave, telling Elfhelm 'not a chance, you're shit out of luck there'. This was even better revenge for what Elfhelm had done at their lunch last week than the cock-blocking trick he'd originally planned.

A figure emerged from the crowd—a woman he hadn't seen for almost six months. Seventy, tall and slim, with short, stylish, ash blonde hair and the same hazel eyes as him and his sister. She was wearing a _sensationally_ glamorous dress—the kind of dress some women half her age would be too scared to wear—knee-length, scarlet red, with elbow-length sleeves and a plunging square neckline. It was figure hugging, and decorated with hundreds of tiny sequins and glinting beads. She'd matched it to a towering pair of heels and a stunning, four piece, diamond and ruby parure that must have cost as much as a house. She looked absolutely _amazing_.

Smiling broadly, he finished his drink and slipped off his stool to hold his arms out. She mirrored his gestures, smiling back, throwing her arms out as she approached, pulling him into a crushing hug. She kissed him squarely on both cheeks, then moved away to look him over. "Still as dreadfully ugly as always, I see."

"Nice to see you, too, Nini."

His Aunt Eorwena grimaced. "Please don't call me that, dear."

"I thought you liked it when I called you Nini."

"When you were six, yes. You were an adorable little boy then. But you're a grown man now. _And_ a King. You should call me aunt or auntie instead."

"Can't I be a grown man and still be adorable as well?"

"Not really, dear, no." She took both of his hands in hers. "So, tell me, how is my favourite royal nephew these days?"

"Auntie, I'm your _only_ royal nephew."

"For the sake of maintaining what little peace we still have in our family, I won't tell your Aunt Morghild you said that."

"Amrandir isn't royal."

"He's a prince, isn't he?"

"Yes, but he's not the son of a King. So, he's not royal in the true legal sense."

She rolled her eyes. "Do you know what your lovely mother used to say about people who make comments like that?"

"I don't, no. But I get the feeling you're about to tell me."

"She used to say, the people who matter don't care, and the people who care don't matter."

Yes, that sounded like something his mum would have said. "Bet granna loved hearing that."

"I'm quite sure she used to say it deliberately, just to wind your grandmother up. She was always good at that, you know. Finding little ways of rebelling."

"When it comes to granna, I'd quite like to do some rebelling myself." And not just in a little way—in a large and noisy way, right to her disapproving face.

She sighed. "The two of you still aren't seeing eye to eye, then?"

"Of course not. And I don't expect we ever will."

"You should really make more of an effort with her. I know she's difficult, but she's a hundred and four. She's not going to be here for much longer." She laid a hand on his arm; her voice went quiet and solemn. "Don't let it come to an end with bad blood still hanging between you. If you do, you'll regret it later, mark my words."

With the number of sudden deaths they'd had in their family over the last thirty years, she probably knew a thing or two about that. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm having lunch with her tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Up at the Palace, yes. For my birthday, she said, but I'm sure she'll have a bone or six to pick with me as well." He smirked. "Don't suppose you'd care to join me, sit in and play referee for us?" A role Eowyn usually took. And sometimes even Colwenna as well.

"Absolutely not," Eorwena firmly said. She brushed some fluff from his jacket lapel. "You are my nephew, and I love you as much as any doting aunt can, but I am well past the point of being willing or able to fight your battles with your grandmother for you."

Except, she'd _never_ been willing or able to fight his battles with his grandmother for him. Not even when he'd been younger, after their parents had died, before he'd come into the Crown. Eomer didn't doubt she loved him, but she'd always been a distant, uninvolved aunt. She'd always turned up for birthdays and Yule, but she'd happily left all the formal decisions about their upbringing to their uncle, and all the hands-on, day-to-day stuff to Colwenna. Including the battles with the Old Queen.

"And it's not as if I don't have my own battles with your grandmother," she pointed out. "It's not any easier to be her daughter than it is to be her grandson, trust me."

There was that, yes.

"I didn't see you come in," he said, thinking it best to change the topic. "When did you arrive?"

She checked her watch. "Forty, maybe fifty minutes ago?"

Almost ninety minutes late, but punctuality never had been one of her talents. "You should have come to find me."

"You were busy with other people, dear. And you know I don't like to interrupt. I thought it best to mingle, and wait until you had a quiet moment."

He turned to gesture at the bar. "I'm having a quiet moment now. Will you have a drink with me?"

"I'd love to, yes." She slipped onto one of the seats, flashing a regally dazzling smile at the young man behind the bar. "I'll have a Dunharrow Reserve, please. The oak cask finish, if you have it. And make it a double," she added.

The server looked to him. "And for you, sir?"

"I'll have the same, please." He'd had enough of beer and wine—time for something more polished instead.

"Of course, sir," the server said with a slight nod. He turned away to pour out their drinks, coming back to present them with two generous measures of a shadowy golden liquid poured into a matching pair of fine crystal glasses.

Eorwena took one glass, Eomer took the other, they raised them to gently chime the rims together. "Here's to many more birthdays to come," Eorwena said.

"I'll drink to that." Eomer raised the glass to take a sip. He smelled honey and caramel and apples, and maybe a hint of something smoky as well. Going down, it was fiery and rich, but silky-smooth at the same time. "Bema. That's bloody good stuff," he said.

"You think I would pick something that wasn’t?"

"You are nothing if not a woman of refinement and taste," he said, raising his glass to salute her again.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear."

He slipped back onto his stool. "So, tell me, auntie, how is life in sleepy Vosburg these days?"

"It's very well, thank you. I've taken up flower arranging as a hobby. _And_ I've joined a knitting circle."

Flower arranging and knitting, Bema. As smart and strong as she was—what an absolutely terrible waste. "That sounds lovely."

"Your Majesty, has anyone ever told you, what a _shockingly_ terrible liar you are?"

"I can lie well when the occasion demands it," he said, thinking about his pigeon rescuer dinner. He'd done some truly world-class lying that night.

"But this occasion doesn't demand it?"

"It's my birthday party," he said. "I just want to relax, eat some nice food, drink some nice drinks. I don't want to have to worry about what I'm saying to who, and how convincing I sound when I say it."

She stared at her drink as she swirled her glass. "Eomer, my dear, would I be correct in thinking, the Crown is sitting too heavy right now?"

"A little bit. But it's fine. Nothing I can't manage."

"Anything I can you help with?"

If he said 'yes', would she actually help him? Based on past experience, it seemed unlikely. "Probably not, but thank you for asking."

"Try me."

He checked behind him, but none of the other guests were anywhere near them. "Have you heard about what Thenwis is planning?"

"If you mean her petition, then yes, I have."

"And what do you think about what she's doing?"

Her eyes went to the server; the man was right at the end of the bar, drying a wine glass with a light towel, but his posture was stiff, and his movements were restrained and small, as if he was trying not to make any noise.

The fucker was listening in. Bema. Even here, in a bloody hotel, the walls were crawling with eyes and ears.

Eorwena smiled, seeing he'd noticed what she'd noticed. "Why don't we step into the garden?" she said, nodding at a nearby door. "You know how claustrophobic I get in busy spaces. Let's go grab some fresh air."

As they walked to the door, Fastmer and Dernbrand fell in behind, obviously planning to escort him into the garden. Eomer understood why—it was an open, semi-public space with a locked gate on the other side that led out into the street, but how much danger was he likely to face? "My aunt and I would like to talk in private," he said to his guards. "Any chance you could wait inside?"

"You need to have at least one guard with you if you go outside, sir," said Fastmer. "But I'll stay by the door."

Eomer could live with that. He trusted Fastmer with his life; he could surely trust him with his private conversations as well. He held the door open for his aunt, waved her through, then followed her out, with Fastmer trailing two metres behind. As promised, the head guard stayed at the door, falling into his usual sentry pose, blocking anyone else inside from coming into the garden to join them. He saw Dernbrand stride away—Eomer was willing to bet good money he was heading out to the street to stand at the other side of that gate.

They claimed one of the padded benches.

"You asked me what I thought of what Thenwis is doing," Eorwena repeated.

"Yes."

"In _my_ opinion, which, admittedly, nobody except you has asked for," she said in a guarded tone, "I think Thenwis is probably setting herself up for a very hard and painful fall."

She didn't think the petition was worth the paper it was written on, then. Good. "Do you think what she's asking for is fair?"

"It's not about what's fair, Your Majesty. It's about what's legal. And the law as it stands right now says Thenwis has no succession rights at all. Whether she likes it or not, she has to accept that."

"But if she asks the government to change that law, do you think it should?"

"Eomer, my dear, that's for people much wiser and smarter than me to decide."

Good old Aunt Eorwena—always willing to chip in a comment or six from the seats, but never willing to actually enter the ring.

"From the look on your face, I get the feeling you don't approve of my position," she said.

His turn to be guarded now. "It's just, when you sit on the fence like that, it's not terribly helpful."

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Fence sitting?"

"Aren't you?"

"Well, now you mention it, I suppose I am, yes." She smiled slightly. "I'm curious, though. Which side of the fence do you think I should be on?"

"I _am_ your nephew."

"And Thenwis is my great-niece. What's your point?"

He remembered, then, a comment Colwenna had made a few years ago, about how Eorwena always stuck to the safe middle ground, and never took anyone's side in a family squabble, no matter how disturbing the issue was, because she'd grown up as the quietest, timidest, least noticed child of a notoriously autocratic father and a painfully demanding mother, sandwiched between the glamorous Morghild and the precocious Theodwyn. It wasn't that she didn't care, or didn't have an opinion on matters—she just wanted a nice, peaceful, stress-free life away from all the family crises and fights.

And _boy_ , had their family had a lot of crises and fights…

"I know you think I'm being unhelpful, but on this matter, I think it's better if I don't get involved." She took another sip of her drink. "And I would recommend you do the same thing."

"Nini, Thenwis is trying to claim succession rights to my crown. How on earth can I _not_ be involved?"

"By recognizing there's really nothing you can do. By stepping back and allowing the legal process to run its course. By waiting for all the people who _can_ do something to figure out that just because Thenwis wants something doesn't mean she can legally have it."

He threw back the rest of his drink and leaned over to set his glass on the ground. "Just wish they could figure it out more quickly," he said. "The waiting for it is driving me _nuts_."

Sighing, she shook her head at him. "Thirty-four, and you're as impatient as always." She smiled softly. "You have _so_ much of your father in you."

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"I know it must be making you anxious, but I'm quite sure this Thenwis thing will all work itself out in the end. You just need to give it some time."

"You _do_ realize, if things had gone differently, that this would be your problem to deal with?"

"You mean because I gave up my rights?"

He nodded. "You renounced your rights four years before Theodred died." Her rights, but not her title and style—she wanted a peaceful, stress-free life, but she liked the benefits of being a princess. "You're my mother's older sister. If you hadn't done that, when Uncle Theoden died, the Crown would have passed to you instead of me."

"I suppose it would have, yes."

"Do you ever regret what you did?" he asked. "Do you ever wish you were Queen?"

Snorting, she waved him away. "Not even slightly. What good would it have done to put me on the throne instead of you? An unmarried, childless sixty-two-year-old with a chronic anxiety problem and a horrible fear of public speaking?" She shook her head. "I would have been a competent placeholder at best. An impediment to progress at worst. Better to just get out of the way, leave the Crown to a younger, more capable, more forward-looking person."

"You would have been our first Queen Regnant."

"That will come in time." A corner of her mouth twitched. "I would say, if your first child is a daughter, but that presumes you ever get round to making some babies."

This was payback for his fence-sitting comment, for sure. "I was wondering how long it would take."

"For me to make a withering comment about your marital status, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I hadn't planned to. I had already decided, before I came here today, that it was going to be none of my business, and I wasn't going to say a single word about it."

"More fence sitting, right?"

"But with _this_ issue, you'd rather I sit on the fence, I think."

"It would be helpful, yes."

"So would you getting married, my dear."

So much for minding her business and not saying a single word about it. "Do we have to do this tonight?"

"Do what?"

"The whole marriage and babies thing. Because I honestly think I'd rather kneel on the ground and let all the guests inside line up to kick me in the balls than go through this conversation again."

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic."

"I'm not being melodramatic. It's just, I've heard this lecture from so many people in the last couple of months, and I really don't want to hear it from you as well."

"You _do_ realize, all those people lecturing you are right? That you _do_ actually need to get married?"

"Of course I do. And I'm trying, I promise."

She said nothing, but raised a brow at him and sipped on her drink.

There _was_ something he could tell her, that might assuage some of her doubts. "If it makes you feel better, I actually had lunch with someone last week."

"A female someone, I assume? Unless your tastes have changed completely since we last spoke."

He grinned. "A woman, Nini, yes."

"Would this be the mystery woman your lovely sister asked me about?"

"Sorry?"

"Eowyn told me you had lunch with someone, but she doesn't know who. She's prodding everyone she can, trying to dig up the young lady's name."

And here, he thought he'd gotten away with it for once, managed to bring a woman into the Palace without the Spymaster General finding out. At least Eowyn didn't know who he'd brought in—he and Solwen were safe for now. "I really wish she wouldn't do that."

"It is a little sinister, yes."

"Could you tell Eowyn that? Turn on some of that soothing Nini charm, ask her to back off a little?"

"I could maybe see my way to doing that, yes."

Committing to a definitive action—wonders never ceased. "Thank you."

"Am I allowed to know, who the young lady was? The one you had lunch with, I mean?"

"If you don't mind, I'd rather not say. Not because I don't trust you." He didn't, but he would never tell her that to her face. "I just want to keep it quiet for now, until I figure out where it's going."

"Are you going to see her again?"

"I'm hoping to, yes."

"You like her then?"

Good question. And one he hadn't really had time to think about, as busy as his week had been. "I think so."

The brow shot up again. "You _think_ so?"

He was going to have to think about it right now, it seemed. Did he like Solwen? She was down-to-earth and easy to talk to. She had a nice sense of humour, although he was still struggling a bit with the Marcher sarcasm thing. She was smart, and capable, and obviously well-educated. And she was certainly attractive, with great legs, lovely eyes and a beautiful, open, mischievous smile. _And_ she had her own motorcycle. What was there not to like? "It means yes, I'm interested in her."

"If you want to keep it quiet, you'll need to be extremely discreet."

"I'm always discreet."

She laughed into her drink.

"The hell does that laugh mean?"

"Eomer, my dear, if you're so good at being discreet, why does everyone and their mother know about your little thing with the Earl of Camelor's wife?"

He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut. "You know about that."

"I certainly do."

She lived all the way up in Vosburg—how the hell had she even found out?

Maybe Aragorn's people had told her…

"Do I even want to know who told you?" he said.

"Someone on the grapevine, my dear."

"There's a _grapevine_?"

"Well, of course there is." She frowned at him. "Do you really not understand, how much people in the Meduseld talk?"

He'd thought he did, but apparently not. "It's times like this that make me wish I wasn't a constitutional monarch, so I could round up and execute everyone who spreads gossip about me."

"If you don't want people to spread gossip about you, don't give them access to the gossip in the first place."

"So, what, just stop living my life? Go live in a cave? Or up a tree? Or in a hut in the Sea of Grass?"

"Don't be silly. Just don't live your life in full view of other people. Not the most personal aspects of it, at least."

"Not sure I follow."

She let out a frustrated sigh. "Eomer, when you do something in front of someone, do you really think they're not paying any attention to you?"

"And when you say someone, you mean my staff?"

"I do, yes."

"They all have confidentiality clauses in their contracts. They all know we'll ruin them in court if they ever try to sell private information."

"But a confidentiality clause doesn't make them shut their brains off. They know they can't _sell_ the information, but that doesn't mean they're not _gathering_ the information." She gestured at the hotel. "Like that man behind the bar, drying his glass, but also listening to every word we were saying." She pointed to Fastmer. "And your head guard. You really think he's not listening to us right now?"

"Nini, I trust Fastmer with my life." With far more than his life—Fastmer had seen him in every condition from his absolute worst to his absolute best. Drunk, sober, angry, sad, anxious, calm, sick as a dog, stark naked, fully clothed, sobbing, raging, laughing, shouting, singing and yes, occasionally, even pissing and puking as well—over the last eight years, his head guard had literally seen and heard it all.

"I know you do. And rightly so. He's one of the most loyal people on your whole team. But he's not blind, or deaf, or stupid. Everything you say or do in front of him, even this conversation we're having right now, is being carefully filed away in his brain. And maybe, sometimes, at the end of a long day, or when he's had a few drinks in him, some of what he files away might end up being repeated to other people. And those other people repeat it to other people in turn."

"The grapevine."

"Exactly."

"Fastmer," he called out. "Are you listening to our conversation?"

An awkward pause, then, "I can hear what you're saying, sir. But I'm trying not to pay attention to you."

"You ever repeat what I say to other people?"

Eomer swore he heard a light huff. "I do not, sir, no."

"What about other people in the Palace?"

Now, a light sigh. "It's possible, sir."

Possible. Which was Fastmer's way of saying, yes, the gossiping bastards bloody well did. Eomer turned back to his aunt.

"You see what I mean?" she said.

"Okay, but the only way to prevent this is to never say or do anything in front of other people. And I don't have the option of living my life that way." He waved at Fastmer again. "I can't go anywhere without a guard. Even inside the Palace, two of them are always with me." If not in the room itself, then on sentry duty outside. "And when I'm outside the Palace, it's even worse."

"Like, when you go to Seorsa Camelor's townhouse, you mean?"

He rubbed his fingers over the front of his head. "I thought we were being careful." He'd needed to do more than just go in the back way, it seemed.

"Someone drove you there?"

"Of course."

"And how many guards did you have with you that night?"

"Three in total. Vonnal in the same car as me, two more in the following car."

"So, four members of your staff know you went to a married woman's house on the way home from an official engagement late on a Sunday night." She scrunched her nose at him. "It's not _really_ rocket science, is it?"

It certainly wasn't.

She leaned back against the bench. "I have to say, I was rather impressed when someone shared that particular snippet with me." She tutted at him. "Seorsa Camelor, of all people. And her not even divorced from her husband yet. _Shocking_ behaviour. It's because we spoiled you, I think. We should have thrashed you more as a child."

"Nini, I know you think you're being funny, but when you say things like that, you make me wish my mother had been an only child."

Eorwena snorted again. "You think _I'm_ bad, wait until your grandmother finds out."

"Is she on the grapevine as well?"

"Eomer, my dear, your grandmother isn't just _on_ the grapevine. Your grandmother _is_ the grapevine."

Bema. This was going from bad to worse. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, carding his fingers through his hair. "Our lunch tomorrow is going to be another verbal bollocking, isn't it?"

"Probably, yes."

He could just hear what his grandmother would say, and the clipped, frosty, critical tone in which she would say it. Just thinking about it made him need a double whisky all over again.

"Are you in love with her?" Eorwena said.

"Sorry?"

"Seorsa Camelor. Are you in love with her?"

"Of course not."

"So, you're not hoping to marry her once she's divorced?"

"Nini, why on earth would you _ever_ ask that?"

She shrugged. "Just wondered, that's all. I mean, she's an extremely attractive woman. And smart as a whip. And I'm sure she's very entertaining in bed."

"Nini…"

"Oh, don't be such a puckered prude, dear. Just because I've never married doesn't mean I don't know how enjoyable sex is."

This was drifting far too close to the whole 'particulars' issue. "We had a lot of fun, yes."

"Well, that's good, I suppose. Bema knows the poor woman probably deserves to have some fun, after what she's put up with for the last twelve years."

"Her husband's not the nicest of people, is he?"

"He makes Sauron Aleswind look charming and kind. I can't understand why she even married the man in the first place."

"She was young and impressionable, I think."

"And very poor."

"And very poor, yes."

"Never underestimate what economic necessity might push a smart young woman into doing."

Fortunately, a problem Seorsa would never have to deal with again. Even if her husband screwed her over in the divorce, somehow persuaded the judge she didn't deserve the settlement she was asking for, she would still receive a generous sum.

"Nini?"

"Yes, dear."

"When you asked me if I was in love with her, if I had said 'yes' instead of 'no', what would you have done?"

"I would have taken you up on your suggestion, had you kneel on the ground, asked your guests to come outside and kick you in the testicles over and over until you agreed to start thinking with what's between your ears instead of what's between your legs."

"That's a bit harsh."

"It most certainly is not."

"No marrying Seorsa Camelor, then?"

She shook her head. "I'm sure she has many wonderful qualities, dear, but she is absolutely _not_ Queen Consort material."

"I know that. I was just messing with you."

"Good. I mean, Bema knows we don't expect our Queens to be trembling virgins these days, but a thirty-six-year-old mother of two whose ex-husband seems to be personally out to get us might be stretching the limits a little too far."

"It would make our lives interesting, that's for sure."

Mischief shone in her eyes. "Is your new lady friend a trembling virgin? The one you had lunch with last week?"

"Good question. I honestly have no idea. I hope not."

"Not a fan of trembling virgins then?"

"Nini, the only sexual encounter I've ever had that involved a trembling virgin, the trembling virgin in question was me."

Her laughter rang out around the garden. "You've been well taken care of in that regard, then."

"Very."

" _Too_ well taken care of, from what I hear."

That would be her bloody grapevine again. He was going to find the damn thing, poison it down to the roots and burn it out of the bloody ground…

She leaned in close to whisper, "Did you really have a fling with Gwenna Freebourn?"

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"I'm seventy, and your spinster aunt, and long past the point of caring about what I say and to whom I say it, and there's nothing I love more than living vicariously through younger, more attractive people, so yes, we bloody well do."

"Yes, I did have a fling with Gwenna Freebourn."

She patted his knee. "Full marks on that one, dear."

"Thanks," he said drily.

"You just have to hope your grandmother doesn't find out. The Eighteenth King of Rohan, taking an _actress_ home for the night?" She tutted again. "I think it would actually give her a stroke."

"You say that as if it would be a bad thing."

"For both our sakes, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

That would be a first…

"So, when are you going to see your new friend again?" she asked. "The one you had lunch with last week?"

Bema, there was another good question. "I honestly have no idea. I'm jammed every day this week. Next weekend maybe." He would have Colwenna check his schedule, set up a lunch or a dinner with Solwen for him. Or even a breakfast, if time was tight. "Might not have any decent amount of free time until the Midsummer break."

"Which reminds me, is it true you're spending the Midsummer break in the _March_?"

"It is."

"Because of the election results, I assume. You're trying to show the March you love it even if the government doesn't?"

And wouldn't Solwen love _that_ remark. "Mostly that, yes. But I've never spent much time in the March. Figured a change of scenery wouldn't do any harm. I hear it has some great riding roads."

She wrinkled her nose. "You and those bloody death traps of yours. I'll never understand why you ride them."

"Because they're _fun_ , Nini."

"More or less fun than sex?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

He flashed his brows at her. "On how hard and rough the ride is."

"Dear Gods," she said, wincing. "If that's your idea of a pick-up line, dear, it's no wonder you aren't married yet."

"That's actually one of my better ones."

"I have no words. Truly." She finished her drink and set her glass on the ground next to his. "Do you know where you're going to stay? When you're in the March, I mean?"

"Not yet. I only made the decision on Thursday. Somewhere in Isendale, I think. Fenbrand's people are working on it."

"Fenbrand, hmm."

"What on earth does that 'hmm' mean?"

She sighed. "Nothing. It's just…"

"You don't like him," he guessed.

"I'm sure he's extremely good at his job. He's just _awfully_ ingratiating."

"He can be a little too obsequious sometimes, yes." Eomer shrugged. "But he's old school. When he started working at the Palace, everyone still bowed to the King every morning, and addressed each other only by their family names." And the only women on the staff had been the cooks and the maids. "You know how it is. Change is harder for some people than others."

"You haven't thought about bringing in someone else?"

"No point. He's due to retire next year. Might as well just wait him out, throw him a party when he goes, let him leave with his pride and dignity intact."

"You're very kind."

"I'm trying to be."

"Another way you take after your father."

"I'm sure mum was kind as well," he said, bristling at the suggestion she wasn't.

"In her own way, yes. But she could be a little bit callous, too, when she wanted to. Your father would have let Fenbrand retire, but your mother would have shown him the door."

He wasn't sure he liked where the conversation was going. "Nini, are you saying my mother was a bad person?"

"Not at all, no. But determined, driven and focused? Occasionally slightly harsh and hard-hearted?" She nodded. "Absolutely, yes."

"There's nothing wrong with being those things." Except, maybe, the harsh and hard-hearted part.

"There isn't, no. I'm sure there are plenty of jobs where you _have_ to be driven and focused. But when you're the King, I think it's better for you to be other things instead."

"Like what?"

"Like good-natured, and easy-going, and generous, and caring, and kind?" She laid her hand over his. "Which is why you're doing such a good job?"

Except, he wasn't always those things. He hadn't been generous with the elves, and he certainly wouldn't be kind to Grima if he ever got his hands on him. "Am I, though? Doing a good job?"

"Eomer, darling, I think you're doing an _excellent_ job." She gave the hand a squeeze. "Except for the marriage and babies part, but I'm sure you'll figure that out in the end."

"I just need some better pick-up lines, right?"

"Do you think that one you just sprang on me there would work on your new lady friend?"

He still didn't know Solwen well, but she struck him as the kind of woman who would appreciate a good motorcycle-themed pick-up line. If it didn't make her want to have sex with him, it would at least make her laugh. Whether at him, or with him, he wasn't quite sure. "Actually, yes, I think it would."

She patted his hand. "Then, there's hope for you yet." She glanced at her watch. "Goodness me, would you look at the time."

He checked his own watch. "It's not even ten. Early hours yet."

"For you pretty young things, yes." She stood up, wincing slightly, rubbing her hip. "For us old people with aging joints, it's almost the middle of the night."

"You're only seventy, Nini. You're a long way away from needing someone to build your barrow for you." Especially if she proved to be as enduring as her mother—she could have another thirty years to go yet.

"You'd think that, dear, but we haven't been the longest-lived family in the world, have we?"

"Apart from granna, you mean?"

She sighed. "Apart from your granna, yes. I _do_ love her, it's just…"

"What?"

Her smile was forced. "Nothing. Don't mind me. Just thinking some unkind thoughts out loud."

He didn't have to be telepathic to guess what those thoughts might be…

"Thank you for the chat," he said, pushing up from his own chair.

"Did it help at all?"

"It was… educational, yes."

"Just remember what I told you. Be cautious about what you say or do, and more importantly, who's in the room when you say or do it."

"I will, I promise." He leaned down to pick up their empty glasses. "And you'll speak to Eowyn for me?"

Eorwena nodded. "I'll call her in a few days, ask her to dial it down a little bit, yes. No guarantees she'll listen to me, of course, she's got that determination of your mother's I mentioned, but if it helps to keep the peace between you, I'm happy to try."

"Thank you," he said.

She pushed up to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Enjoy the rest of your birthday party. And try not to let granna get to you too much tomorrow."

That was like asking water not to be wet. "Are you staying in town tonight?"

She nodded. "With a friend, yes." She tapped her watch. "Why I don't want to stay too late. I promised I would be back in time to have a nightcap with her."

"You could have stayed with us. Up at the Palace, I mean. You know there's always a room for you there."

"Too many ghosts in the Palace, my dear. Probably best if I don't."

He understood that. Every old building had ghosts, but the Meduseld was drowning in them. The things those walls had heard and seen. "Driving home tomorrow?"

"First thing, yes."

"Fleeing ahead of the enemy army's advance?"

She swatted him on the arm. "That's a terrible way to describe your grandmother."

"I'm not wrong, though, am I? She's the reason you're leaving early tomorrow."

"I have a friend coming for lunch at twelve," she said, not entirely convincingly. "I need to be on the road by nine."

"Uh huh."

"Thank you for inviting me tonight. Was absolutely lovely to see you."

"Was lovely to see you, too. Just wish you would stay a little while longer."

"You know how I am with parties, dear. Another thirty minutes of this, and I'll start to feel as if the walls are closing in on me. Best if I leave now, before that happens."

Eomer could understand that—it was more or less how he'd felt at the Edoras Women's Network event. "Have a safe drive home tomorrow. Enjoy your summer, we'll see you at Yule, if not before."

"You certainly will." With a final pat on the arm, she turned to head inside. She paused at the door. "And Eomer?"

"Yes?"

"Best of luck with your new lady friend. If you _do_ decide it's going somewhere, I'd very much like to meet her."

"You'll be the first to know, I promise." Assuming the grapevine didn't spill the beans to her first.

She blew him a kiss and stepped through the door, leaving him to enjoy the garden alone.

He closed his eyes, taking a minute to savour the sound and smell of the summer evening. A light breeze whispered through the trees. Tiny bird wings fluttered past him. Water trickled over the lip of the fountain. The air conditioning unit feeding the banquet room rumbled. In the distance, an ambulance siren wailed, briefly growing louder then fading again.

As pleasant as the garden was, he couldn't stay out here all night; even at his own birthday party, he had people and duties to attend to. Plus, he needed a trip to the men's room.

At the door, Fastmer nodded and stepped aside.

Eomer paused with his hand on the handle. "Fastmer?"

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Do you _really_ not pay any attention to anything you hear me say or see me do?"

"It's not always possible, sir. But I try my best not to."

"Not even when I say or do something stupid?"

"Only if it puts your life in danger, sir."

When he wanted to throw the Firefoot up the Starkhorn Pass at full speed, for instance. "So, if I decided to go upstairs, rent the Rohan Suite for the night, ask someone to bring me a dozen expensive call girls, you wouldn't even blink?"

"I would have to check the young ladies, sir. Frisk them for drugs and weapons, I mean. And verify their ages as well."

No underage nonsense with Fastmer around. "But you wouldn't stop me."

"No, sir. I would not."

"And you wouldn't tell anyone else what I'd done?"

"Absolutely not, sir." He hesitated. "Except under oath, of course. If it ever became a criminal matter."

If _that_ ever happened, he would need more than Fastmer's presence to protect him. "You're very loyal."

"Just doing my job, sir."

"I know you are. But what I'm saying is, I appreciate your loyalty. _And_ your discretion."

Another nod. "Thank you, sir."

Eomer opened the door to step back into the function room. He went to the bar to set down the glasses and scanned around, looking for any indication as to where the men's room might be.

" _There_ you are," said Elfhelm as he strode up to meet him. "Been looking for you for _ages_."

That seemed highly unlikely—he and Nini couldn't have been outside for more than twenty minutes. "Was having a catch-up chat with my aunt."

"And how did that go?"

"Fine," was all Eomer said; he wasn't sure he wanted to share his aunt's insights with his best friend just yet. "How was you chat with Lady Sunver?"

Elfhelm grimaced. "At one point, when she started talking about her pedigree dogs, I thought I was going to have to fake my own death."

"She does ramble a little bit, doesn't she?" But always in the kindest and best intentioned of ways.

"Why the hell was she even here? I didn't think you really knew her."

"Her husband used to be Uncle Theoden's stablemaster. He taught me to ride. He died in December. She's been struggling a bit, I thought the party would do her good."

"That was rather kind of you."

Two people telling him that in close succession—he must be doing something right. "Why were you looking for me?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you'd been looking for me for ages. There a problem?"

Elfhelm's face broke into a grin. "Not at all. Quite the opposite in fact. You'll never guess who turned up while you were chatting outside." He turned to scan the room. "Now, where the bloody hell did he go?" he muttered. "There he is," he added, waving to someone in the far corner.

And a very welcome someone at that.

Smiling, the man came over to meet them. Two metres away, he paused to give a small, impeccable bow. "Your Majesty," Mordulf Thelanor solemnly said.

"Enough of that," Eomer said, waving the formal greeting away. Grinning from ear to ear, he went to pull his other best friend into a hug, slapping him firmly on the back a few times for good measure. "What the hell are you even doing here?" he said when they separated. "I know we invited you, but Eowyn told me you wouldn't be able to take any leave."

"Change of plans at the last minute," Mordulf said.

"You managed to get the leave, then?"

Mordulf's smile was enigmatic. "You could say that, yes."

"When did you get home?"

"My flight landed at six o'clock. I dropped my stuff at the house, showered, changed, came straight here." Mordulf clapped him on the shoulder. "Couldn't miss my old War College roommate's thirty-fourth birthday party."

"It's great to see you," Eomer said. Apart from Thenwis coming to tell him she was tearing up her petition, or his grandmother calling to let him know she wasn't coming for lunch tomorrow after all, he couldn't think of a better birthday present. "How long are you home for this time?" Hopefully, more than a couple of days—he would like to have some time to catch up.

Mordulf sighed. "Actually, this time, I'm home for good."

"You're _done_ with the Army?" A shocking development if it was true—he'd always assumed Mordulf would stay in the forces until he retired.

"I am, sir, yes. I hit my ten year mark a month ago." Mordulf smiled, but the movement didn't reach his eyes. "Decided it was time to move on."

Eomer could see there was something more going on, but this was neither the time nor the place to discuss it. "I assume that means you resigned your commission?"

Mordulf nodded. "I'm not Captain Thelanor anymore. As of four days ago, I'm just plain old Mister Thelanor again."

" _Lord_ Thelanor, you mean," said Elfhelm.

"Not quite yet. My mother still has a couple of decades in her, I think."

"She'll be pleased to have you home," said Eomer. "And your father as well."

"They both are yes." Mordulf sighed. "But I've been in Rohan for barely three hours, and she's already nagging me about not being married."

Elfhelm snorted.

It was just the way of the world, it seemed. Their lives were supposed to follow a pre-set path, and Bema help them if they ever tried to take even a single step off it. "At least it's only your mum. You'll never have the newspapers nagging at you as well." Or the Hall of Lords and the High King of Gondor.

"Yes, I heard about that."

"The two of you should form a support group," Elfhelm said. "Meet once a month, have a few beers, swap complaints and strategies, hand out hugs and little badges."

That actually sounded quite nice. "So, what are you going to do for work now?" Eomer asked.

Mordulf sighed. "Your Majesty, I honestly have no idea."

"Right now, the only work we should do is this," said Elfhelm, pretending to raise a glass to his mouth. "To celebrate you being home."

"I could just about murder a good pint of Black," Mordulf said. "Can't get it anywhere in Harad. Been dreaming about having one for months."

That was an easy request to fill. "You get the beers," Eomer said, patting Elfhelm on the arm. "I need to hit the head." Assuming he could even find it.

Elfhelm pointed to one of the doors at the side of the room. "Nearest one's in the hallway through there, at the far end, down on the right."

"Back in a few." Eomer made for the door, with Fastmer once again trailing behind. He found the bathroom right at the end of the hall, just as Elfhelm had indicated. As always, he waited for Fastmer to check and clear it for him. It was one of the nice things about being a King—when he went for a piss, he never had to see or talk to other people.

Apart from Fastmer, the hall was still empty when he came out.

Until he was four metres or so from the door. The door swung in, and who should appear but Thenwis Colafell, of all people. Probably looking for a bathroom herself.

She froze. He froze. Two metres behind him, Fastmer probably froze as well.

Of all the halls, in all the hotels, in all the world; the one person at the whole party he'd been scrupulously trying to avoid.

She broke the silence. "Your Majesty," Thenwis said, smiling if not warmly, at least politely. "I was just about to head home."

"Of course, yes. Thank you for coming. It was lovely to see you. I hope you enjoyed yourself." If only Nini could see his lying skills now.

Another smile. "I did, yes. Thank you for inviting me."

"Did you have some of the birthday cake?"

Nodding, she patted her stomach. "Two slices, yes. It was _amazing_. You'll need to give me the name of the person who made it."

"Eowyn could help you with that. Pretty sure she organized it." Or maybe Colwenna; he wasn't sure.

"I'll ask her, thank you."

More polite-but-not-warm smiling.

His turn to break the silence this time. "I should head back," he said, gesturing at the door behind her. "Lots of guests to attend to."

"Of course, yes."

She stepped aside to move past him, no doubt heading for the women's room at the end of the hall.

In hindsight, he didn't know what made him do it.

"Thenwis?" he called out.

"Your Majesty?"

Heart pounding, he turned to face her. "I probably shouldn't ask, but I'd like to know, this petition I've heard about, are you actually planning to lodge it?"

"I haven't decided," she said curtly.

Not a 'yes', but not a 'no' either. "I just…" Eomer flapped his hands. "Why on earth are you even thinking about it?"

"Because I want my succession rights restored," she said, as if he'd just asked the world's most ridiculous question.

"You _do_ realize, it's not as simple as that?"

"I don't see why it shouldn't be." She gestured at him. "You removed the bar on royals marrying commoners. And you changed the succession to be gender neutral. If the government can make those changes for you, why can't it make mine for me?"

"Because that was changing something going forward, for people who haven't even been born yet. What you're asking for, that's a retroactive change, to undo something that's already happened. That's a far more complicated issue."

"It's just a law. If the government can make it, it can unmake it as well."

Eru and all the Valar save him; did she really think this was how the Rohanese legal system worked?

Time for a basic Civics lesson. "When your grandmother married without her parents' approval, she ceased to exist for the purposes of the succession. Since _she_ doesn't legally exist, neither did your father, and neither do you. The only way to restore your rights is to restore your grandmother's first. And the only way to do that is to make her legally exist again."

She shrugged. "So, make her legally exist again."

That insouciance was beginning to irk him. "Yes, except your grandmother was the _oldest_ of King Thengel's four daughters. If she legally exists again, in theory, she would take precedence over my mother. Over _me_ ," he added, tapping his chest. "Restoring your rights could cast doubts on my claim to the Crown."

"I don't see how that's my problem," she said. "Has it ever occurred to you, that maybe we _should_ cast doubts on your claim to the Crown? Maybe you had no right to inherit it from King Theoden in the first place. If my petition causes stress for you, I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. I'm not going to stay quiet, and not ask for what I think I should have, just to make life easy for you."

"Is that what you really think, or what the Earl of Camelor's telling you to think?"

"Why would the Earl of Camelor be telling me anything?" But there was no shock or alarm in her voice, just ice-cold anger—his question must have hit a sore spot.

"Thenwis, I know you're smart. And I know you're determined to do what you think is the right thing," he said. "But you're only twenty. You don't understand how the world really works."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not patronizing you. I just want you to be sure you're only doing this for yourself. Don't let other people use you."

"With all due respect, _Your Majesty_ "—she almost spat his title at him—"when I need your advice on how to run my private affairs, I'll ask for it."

"I have no problem if you won't take my advice. But you should take someone's."

"I am."

"Really? Because you could have fooled me."

"Are you implying I don't know what I'm doing?"

"I'm not just implying. I'm outright stating. You seem to have _no_ idea how complicated this process would be. It would mean writing a new Succession Law, which would mean altering the Constitution." Something they'd only done once since the start of his reign, and Bema, had that change been a fight. "The government will _never_ go to all that trouble for such a trivial matter."

Even before he'd finished his sentence, he knew he'd used the wrong word.

"It's not trivial to me," she said, eyes blazing, hands forming fists at her sides. "And nobody ever solved a problem by not even trying."

"You _do_ remember, your grandmother knew she would lose her rights, and that she agreed to give them up?"

"She didn't agree to anything! It was either give up her succession rights, or never be with the man she loved! How the _fuck_ is that agreeing?"

He wouldn't ever say it out loud, but she made the tiniest of points. "Sometimes, being a member of the royal family means making difficult choices."

She sneered. "What, like which earl's wife to sleep with next?"

It was like a gate slamming shut in his head. In an instant, any tiny amount of sympathy he might have had for her problem vanished. "Enjoy the rest of your evening," he stiffly said. "Make sure you take some of the birthday cake for your mother and sister."

He stormed back into the banquet room, flinching as the heavy door slammed over behind him. It opened again a few seconds later, but it wasn't Thenwis, only his long-suffering guard, quietly taking up his usual protective position.

Eomer took a few breaths, unclenched his fists and waited for the buzzing sound in his ears to fade. "I'm sorry you had to hear that," he said to Fastmer.

"Not the worst I've ever heard, sir."

"I shouldn't have said anything to her, should I?"

"It might have been a good moment to practice shutting up, sir, yes."

Bema, wasn't that the truth?

Eowyn sauntered his way, a blissfully happy smile on her face, the rosy flush on her cheeks telling him she'd enjoyed more than her usual single glass of red wine. As she neared, her smile morphed into a frown. "What's wrong?" she said.

There was no point in trying to lie; sober or not, she would see right through him. "I think I just did something really stupid," he quietly said.

"What?"

"I think I picked a fight with Thenwis."

Behind him, the door to the bathroom hallway flew open again. Thenwis appeared, as if summoned by the uttering of her name. She scowled at him, then stormed away, heading for the main exit at the front of the room.

Eowyn watched her go. "Eomer, what on earth did you just do?" she asked in a low voice, all sober, sensible princess now.

"I asked her if she was going to lodge her petition."

"What did she say?"

"She told me she hadn't decided."

"And?"

"And, I _might_ have slightly put my foot in it."

She sighed. "How slightly?"

He rubbed his face, wishing he could wind back time and do the last ten minutes all over again. "Let's just say, if she wasn't going to lodge her petition before, she's almost certainly going to lodge it now."

He waited for the verbal thrashing to start. Or, maybe even the physical one.

To his surprise, she simply sighed and patted him gently on the back. "Not one of your most diplomatic moments, then?"

"Not by a very long way." He really needed to learn to keep his impulsive nature in check. One day, it was going to get him into a level of trouble not even Eowyn, Colwenna and Fastmer combined could haul his sorry royal arse out of. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have said anything her. I don't know what made me do it."

She rubbed his back again. "What's done is done. There's nothing we can do now, except wait to see what she does."

"You're taking this awfully well."

"Probably because I've had three _very_ large glasses of wine."

 _Three_ glasses? Bema. No wonder she'd been smiling so hard. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen her drink more than two. But if three glasses made her this easy to deal with, he might have to encourage her to drink more often. "Will you still be this understanding tomorrow?"

"I doubt it."

She would be back to wanting to thrash him again. But one night off was better than nothing.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

Good question. Other than curl up under the table and cry, he had absolutely no _fucking_ idea. "Right now, I'm going to have another drink." And then another slice of the cake. And then maybe another drink again after that.

"Don't drink _too_ much," she said. "Dernbrand warned me when we came in, there are two tabloid people at the main entrance. You don't want tomorrow's papers to be full of photos of Fastmer pouring you into your car."

"I won't get too wasted, don't worry." Not here, at least. But maybe later, back at the Palace. He would only need someone to pour him into bed there. Or, they could leave him to sleep on the couch.

"And don't go somewhere we can't find you. People will start heading out soon, they'll want to say goodbye when they go."

One final round of smiles, handshakes, hugs and kisses. "I'll just be over there," he said, pointing to where Elfhelm and Mordulf were standing, each holding a pint of black, with another pint sitting on the bar between them. "I won't disappear on you, I promise."

"Good." She made a shooing motion. "Go have your drink. I'll catch up with you when it's time to leave."

As he walked to the bar, Elfhelm picked up the waiting pint and held it out to him. "Figured you wouldn't mind if we got started."

"Not at all." Eomer grabbed the pint and took a long pull, downing at least a quarter of it.

"Easy does it, sir," Elfhelm murmured. "Pace yourself, please."

To hell with pacing himself. Eomer turned to Mordulf. "How late can you stay?"

"I'm still running on Harad time, so it's technically just past one o'clock in the morning for me. But I've been on the four o'clock shift for the last six months, so if I stay up another two or three hours, my brain will just reset and skip a whole day."

"Good."

"Why's that good?" Elfhelm asked.

"Because it's my birthday, and I think I'd like to get roaring drunk."

"You probably shouldn't do it here," Mordulf said, repeating Eowyn's warning. "Too public, too many people watching."

"Which is why we're going to have one here, then head up to the Palace." He looked from one friend to the other. "That sound like a plan to you?"

Elfhelm shrugged. "Works for me. Just roll me into a quiet corner if I fall asleep on the floor again."

Eomer turned to Mordulf. "What about you?"

"I might not be able to do roaring drunk, sir. But I'll have a couple."

"Good enough." Eomer raised his pint. "So, what should we drink to right now?"

"To friends," Elfhelm proposed.

And maybe younger sisters as well.

But absolutely _not_ to cousins…


	42. Chapter 42

**Sunday May 31, 2020**

Fifty-two.

That was how many members of the Household Eowyn had assembled.

They were standing in a semi-circle, in front of the gold and marble grandeur of the Sovereign's Stairs—twenty-six men on the left, twenty-six women on the right, ordered from the most senior to the most junior. Everyone from Bregdan, Halmund and Colwenna all the way down to the young woman who polished the silver and the young lad who brought in the mail, all dressed immaculately, with hair combed, shoes polished and formal uniforms perfectly pressed.

It was quite a show. And all for the benefit of one haughty, demanding, exhausting old woman.

Eomer himself was wearing one of his smartest, most sober suits, tailored from the least interesting material he'd ever laid eyes on, while Eowyn had opted for a slim, demure, below-the-knee dress with a high neck and elbow-length sleeves. As women usually learned the hard way, one didn't show cleavage, shoulders or thighs when one was in the Old Queen's presence. As always, Eowyn's dress and shoes were white. She'd been willing to make some concessions with her outfit, but she'd refused to wear another colour, not even for such an auspicious guest.

They'd both taken particular care with their hair, knowing it would be the first thing their grandmother looked at. He'd had his trimmed extra short and combed into a neat, old-fashioned side parting that made him feel like a schoolboy again, while Eowyn had pulled hers into a braided bun at the nape of her neck.

From the size and length of his sideburns all the way down to the height and shape of her heels, they were the image of smart, respectable, royal brother and sister.

And would any of it matter?

Would it _hell_.

No matter how hard they tried, or how much effort they made, the Old Queen would always find something about their appearance that irked her. It was a game they could never win; he didn't know why they even tried. Next time, he should turn up wearing shorts and his favourite rock band t-shirt instead. She would probably die of shock on the spot, but all things considered, that might be doing everyone in the country a favour.

He was just glad she wouldn't be able to see how disordered he was on the inside. Colwenna had let him sleep until eight, but that had still felt at least three hours short of what he needed. He'd gone for a ten minute, freezing cold shower, taken the maximum dose of three different types of painkillers, eaten a light but protein-themed breakfast and drunk four cups of various 'restorative' teas, but he still felt as if he'd been ridden hard and put away wet. He was never, ever drinking that much the night before a family lunch again.

He leaned over to whisper, "Is the number deliberate?"

"What number?"

"I counted the staff. There's fifty-two of them. And granna just turned a hundred and four," he explained. "Is that deliberate?"

"Of course it is," she whispered back. "You think I don't pay attention to details like that?"

Well, that was him told. "I'll just be quiet, then."

"Yes, do, please."

Her lenient mood from the previous night was history, then…

Outside, a car pulled up—a lumbering behemoth of a beast that could probably carry at least six people.

The moment he'd been dreading for weeks was here; the Dowager Queen of Rohan—the infamous Steelsheen—had arrived.

From behind him came a murmur and rustle—the sound of fifty-two spines straightening up and fifty-two pairs of perfectly polished shoes neatly clicking together. Eomer pulled up tall himself, remembering the posture lessons their grandmother had hammered into them as children, sensing Eowyn doing the same beside him. Was his sister's heart pounding as hard as his?

Outside, Leofrick—the Palace's longest-serving and most senior footman—went to the car to open the door. He bowed deeply from the shoulders as the car's sole occupant emerged, straightening up only once she had fully moved past him.

For all she was a-hundred-and-four, there was nothing remotely frail or fragile about their grandmother. Her hair was turning from silver to white, and her hands and neck were more wrinkles and age spots than skin. But as she drew near, he could see she was still almost the same height as him—the years had done nothing to diminish her imposing stature. She walked slowly, but regally, without a supportive arm or a stick, her head held high, her shoulders pulled back and her spine as straight as the sky-scraping tower at Minas Ithil. Even from here, Eomer could see the resolve in her expression, and feel her steely, disapproving glare scrutinizing him in return.

He might be thirty-four and a King, but ten seconds under his grandmother's gaze was enough to make him feel as if he was eight years old all over again. She hadn't come to have lunch with him—she'd come to remind him what an insolent, wicked child he was and have him beaten soundly until he behaved.

Eowyn would enjoy watching that. And maybe Colwenna and Fastmer as well.

Fastmer might even volunteer to give out the beating.

She came to stand in front of him, her chin raised, her jaw clenched and her night-dark eyes staring him down. This was the first of the major battle of wills—who would blink first and give way to whom. But Eomer knew he had the higher ground. She might be his grandmother, a Dowager Queen and more than a century old, but _he_ was the one who sat on the throne. Protocol said he _never_ bowed first, not even to her. And she knew that as well as he did.

With her mouth set in a thin line, she dipped her head slightly. It wasn't much, as far as bows went, barely even a bow at all, but it was all he was going to receive, it seemed. He bowed back, lower and longer, showing respect for her age and position, letting her claim the smallest of wins. "Your Majesty, welcome to the Meduseld Palace," he said.

She huffed an irritated sigh. "You don't need to tell me where I am, boy. This was my home for thirty-six years before you were even born. I think I remember what the building is called." Done with him already, she turned her gaze on Eowyn, raising a wizened, disapproving brow. "Did I not tell you, the last time we met, how inappropriate it is for an unmarried woman to always wear white?"

Eowyn forced a smile. "You did, Your Majesty, yes." She dropped into an elegant curtsy, meekly bowing her head.

"Then, why are you wearing white today?"

"Because I _like_ it, granna," Eowyn rather unmeekly said.

"You'll never marry well with a rebellious attitude like that," the Old Queen snapped.

"I'm not really concerned about marrying well, granna."

Or, about marrying at all, it seemed…

"You should be. You're almost thirty years old. In my day, it would have been _unthinkable_ for a princess of the Royal House to still be single at such an age. You should have at least two children by now. You need to find yourself a husband, make a few plump babies for him, while you're still young and healthy enough to make them."

Eomer bit down on a grin; it was nice to hear Eowyn getting it in the neck about her marital and parental status for once.

As always, his amusement was short-lived.

"And _you_ ," Morwen added, turning her withering glare on him again. "Thirty-four, the only living male of the House of Eorl, and still no legitimate heir to succeed you?" She wrinkled her nose, looking him up and down. "Disgraceful. You should be _utterly_ ashamed of himself."

Bema, the staff would be having the time of their lives, listening in on a lecture like this. He wondered which of the tabloids would print the most accurate version. He could just see the headlines now—'A Right Royal Thrashing!', the article in The Sun would scream. "It's all in hand, granna," he said. "Nothing anyone needs to worry about just yet."

"Really?"

"Yes, granna. Really."

"We'll see about that," she muttered.

"Would you like to take a stroll around the Palace first?" Eowyn suggested. "We've completed some renovation work since you were last here. The ceiling in the Queen's Gallery has been completely restored. I know you were always fond of the Gallery, I thought you might like to see it."

Morwen shook her head. "If I'd wanted a tour, I would have asked for a tour. I came to have lunch, so take me to lunch."

Eomer turned to gesture down the corridor on the right. "We're having lunch in the King Helm Room."

"I prefer the King Brego Room."

But of course ~~the old witch~~ she did. "I thought the King Helm Room would be nicer."

She snorted. "You thought wrong, boy." She heaved a world-weary sigh. "But if it's the King Helm Room, it's the King Helm Room. No point in crying about it."

Crying, no. Bitterly complaining, yes. But he knew it had nothing to do with what room they were having lunch in. If he'd arranged it in the King Brego Room, she would have wanted it out on the terrace. And if he'd arranged it out on the terrace, she would have wanted it in the King Helm Room. There was no winning this woman's games—just like Eowyn with chess. And at least chess had predictable rules.

Two hours, he reminded himself. And the sooner they started, the sooner the whole painful charade would be done.

"Would you allow me to escort you?" he said, holding out his right arm.

"No, thank you," Morwen tartly said. "I may be old, but I'm perfectly capable of escorting myself."

She brushed past him, heading towards the King Helm Room, leaving him and Eowyn to follow.

Ever the gentleman, he offered his arm to his sister instead. Ever the lady, she smiled and laid her hand over his.

This was probably going to be the most painful two hours of his life.

As the royal party moved out of sight, shoulders slumped, and a wave of sighs and groans filled the air.

"Is she _always_ like that?" Colwenna heard one of the housemaids say to another.

"Ladies, no gossiping please," she said, sternly, but not _too_ sternly. She couldn't blame them—the first time she'd met the Old Queen, she'd asked Princess Theodwyn more or less the same question herself. "Back to work now. The furniture in the King's office won't polish itself."

"Yes, ma'am," both women said and hurried away.

She waited until the crowd had dispersed, turning her glare on a few of the footmen who threatened to linger until they skulked off, then headed to the King's apartments on the top floor.

She wanted to set some headache pills on his coffee table. Something told her he was going to need them once the lunch was done.

"Did you enjoy lunch?" Eomer asked as Bregdan cleared the last of the plates away.

Morwen smiled, and to his surprise, there was a hint of genuine pleasure behind it. "I did, yes, very much, thank you. My compliments to your chef."

"You have Eowyn to thank for that," he said, smiling at his sister. "She poached him from one of the Gondorian princes."

That piqued her curiosity, as any mention of Gondor predictably did. "Really? Which one?"

"The Prince of Pelargir," Eowyn said.

Morwen's eyes gleamed with almost vindictive approval. "Never did care for the man," she said, patting Eowyn's hand. "Good for you, child. Nicely done."

Eomer grabbed the pot to refill Morwen's tea, then refilled Eowyn's and his own. "Doubt it's the same Prince as the one you knew," he pointed out. "Probably his son. His grandson, even."

Morwen turned her gaze on him, her sour expression that of someone about to berate a talkative child who'd accidentally wandered into an adult conversation.

"We'll have to be careful when the Prince visits in August," Eowyn said, stepping in to smooth over the moment. "He might try to steal our chef back."

"You shouldn't invite him," Morwen said. " _I_ certainly wouldn't."

"We have to, granna," Eomer said. "He's one of the highest-ranking of the Gondorian princes. It would be a terrible breach of protocol if we didn't." And if he was going to strike any family off the list, it would be the House of Dol Amroth, not the House of Pelargir. He'd only met Prince Caelarion of Pelargir once, barely knew the man from Bema.

Morwen sniffed—as close as she would ever come to admitting he might have a point.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to attend the banquet?" Eowyn asked.

Morwen set her cup down. " _Quite_ sure, thank you. One of the luxuries of being as old as I am is that you're no longer expected to pretend to enjoy meeting new people. It wouldn't be so bad if some of the guests were also my age." Sighing, she dabbed her napkin to her mouth. "But they're all gone. It's just me now. An aging relic in a room full of bickering, ignorant adolescents."

For the first time in a long time, Eomer actually felt sorry for her. It must be hard, to be one of if not the last living member of her generation, to have watched so many friends and loved ones grow old and die. Her parents, her in-laws, all three of her siblings and their spouses, her husband of thirty-seven years, her only son, a son-in-law, the youngest of her four daughters. And perhaps most painful of all, her beloved, favourite grandchild, Theodred. That was a lot for any one person to bear, even someone as strong and resilient as his grandmother. It briefly made him want to hug her.

Too briefly, as it turned out.

"And it would simply remind me of how much things have changed," she added, her puckered expression making it clear she thought those changes were absolutely _not_ for the better. "Things are so different, now. All this talk of equality, and democracy, and constitutions, and people having rights. But nobody thinks about their responsibilities now, do they? About the duty they have, to family, and crown and country. Now, it's all about their own needs and pleasures."

He was honestly shocked it had taken this long. And he didn't want to do this today. The rich lunch had been hard on his stomach, and his head was starting to pound again. He had absolutely no capacity to deal with her usual psychological warfare right now. "Granna, if there's something you want to say to me, please just come out and say it," he said. "Don't beat around the bush. It's not your style. You're terrible at it."

"There's plenty I want to say to you, boy. But I think it best if I say it in private." She smiled politely at Eowyn, whose cup of tea froze halfway to her mouth. "Eowyn, my dear, you'll excuse us, please."

"Of course," Eowyn murmured, knowing better than to argue with her. She set her cup back down on her saucer, dabbed her mouth, dropped her napkin on her plate and rose from her seat, pausing to curtsy to their grandmother and aim a respectful nod at him. The nod was for show—if they'd been on their own she would barely have said goodbye politely, much less given him a bow. "I'll be in my rooms if anyone needs me."

Morwen turned her attention to Bregdan next, standing rigidly still at the back of the room, staring straight ahead, patiently waiting to be summoned. "You may leave," she ordered. "We'll call you when you need you again."

Bregdan bowed to each of them—slightly deeper to him, which, based on the way she furrowed her brows, didn't escape the Old Queen's attention—and backed out of the double doors, gently pulling them closed behind him.

Eomer steeled himself for the pain to come. And it was going to be painful—their one-to-one chats were never pleasant.

She raised her cup to finish her tea, scowling at him over the rim, as always, dragging the moment out as much as she could. "You haven't been a very good King," she eventually said.

"That's not what the opinion polls in the papers say." Or, what his aunt Eorwena said.

She waved his answer away. "Since when does the King of Rohan care about what the newspapers think?"

"Since the kingdom became a constitutional monarchy, granna. We don't _rule_ Rohan anymore. Now, we reign, and even then, only at the people's pleasure." Or, rather, only at Parliament's pleasure, but the end results were the same. "I don't worry about the opinion polls, but I _do_ pay attention to them, because they tell me if I'm doing a good job."

She slammed her cup down, hard enough to make the spoon on her saucer rattle. "If you were so worried about doing a good job, you would be married with two or three children by now. Correct me if I'm wrong"—her tone made it clear the mere prospect was unthinkable—"but this is still a hereditary monarchy, yes?"

He sighed. "Yes."

"Which means your most important job, your _only_ job, even, is to marry and produce a legitimate heir. To keep the Line of Eorl going. You _do_ realize, if you die without a male heir, the line dies with you?"

Why did she always have to be so damnably dramatic?

"It's just a name, granna. Not some sacred, Eru-anointed bloodline. If I die without a son, my eldest daughter will inherit. And if I die without any children at all, the Crown will pass to Eowyn and her children." She started to object—he raised a hand to cut her off. "And before you try to tell me what a tragedy it would be to break the male-line descent from Eorl, remember, I inherited the Crown from my _mother's_ brother, not my father's."

"But your father was of the Line of Eorl as well."

He shrugged. "You know what they say, granna. If you can't keep it in your pants, keep it in your family."

"For both our sakes, I'll simply pretend I didn't hear that." She scowled at him. "Young people today. All so utterly coarse," she muttered.

If only she knew just how coarse he could be. Maybe Seorsa Camelor could tell her…

"Granna, what is it you want? Why are you here?"

"I came to wish you a happy birthday."

"You'll forgive me if I'm not getting a lot of 'congratulations on being born' vibes."

"Why do you think I'm here, boy?"

The 'boy' thing was beginning to irk him; he understood now how Solwen had felt. "Other than to nag at me for not being married, you mean?"

"You need to be nagged. Your situation is—"

"—shameful and disgraceful, yes, I believe we've covered that already."

"As your grandmother, and a Dowager Queen, I'd like to know, who and when are you going to marry?"

"With all due respect, granna, that's really none of your business."

Fury filled her black eyes. "I was Queen of Rohan for thirty years, boy. Since when is the future of the monarchy none of my business?"

He poured himself some more tea. "Since my grandfather Thengel died, I think." Which had been ten years before he'd even been born. He swirled his cup, watching the patterns the liquid made, forcing himself to keep his temper in check. This woman could rile him up like no other person on the whole planet. "He was King before we wrote the Constitution, so I know he was a more powerful monarch than me, that he didn't just reign, that he actually ruled, and that the two of you more or less ruled together. I know he gave you more power to wield in your own right than any Queen Consort before or since, but you have to realize, that power ended when Thengel's reign did." He raised his eyes to her. "You have no right to tell me what to do. Whether you like it or not, whether you approve of me or not, whether you agree with how I am living my life or not, _I_ am King of Rohan now. If you can't respect that, we should end this conversation right here."

For once, her smile was approving. "So, you _do_ have some fire in you. Good. You'll need it, if it comes to a fight for the Crown."

"Why would there ever be a fight for the Crown?" Except in the literal sense, when they brought the _actual_ crown out of its box for grand state events, and Eowyn pestered him to let her try it on when none of the staff were looking.

"Are you aware of what the Earl of Camelor and the Countess of Keveleok are doing?"

"Of course I am. They're running a smear campaign to discredit me, because for reasons which aren't terribly hard to discern, they've decided they want to get rid of me, and put Thenwis Colafell on the throne in my place. And it's possible the three of them are working together, but I haven't been able to prove it yet."

Her smile was satisfied now. "You're not as oblivious as you look, then. Good."

His temples started to throb. "Granna, have I ever told you, how much I appreciate all the gentle nurturing you give me?"

"You're the King of Rohan, boy, not a potted plant."

"What Thenwis and her cohorts are doing, it's annoying, and a distraction I don't need with the oath anniversary event coming up, but I'm not overly worried. You talk about a fight for the Crown, but nobody's going to fight me for anything. Times have changed. We settle disputes with the law now. We don't do the armed uprising thing anymore."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. I thought the same thing, until I lived through two rebellions against the Crown, one against your great-grandfather, the other against your grandfather. I've seen how they start, politely, with insinuation and criticism, and I know how they end." She jerked her hand across her throat. "If you don't pay attention to what's going on, this whole matter could end badly for you."

He massaged the bridge of his nose; this was getting ridiculous. "Granna, for the last time, we have this thing called the _Constitution_ , now. And a Charter of Rights. And a Supreme Court. Nobody is going to depose me, violently or otherwise. Thenwis can ask the Hall for whatever she wants, and the Hall can vote for whatever it wants, but unless the House of Commons agrees, which seems extremely unlikely, it won't make any bloody difference to who actually sits on the throne. The only way I'll lose my crown is if the people of Rohan collectively and democratically decide they don't want to live under a monarchy anymore. And even if that actually happens, which also seems extremely unlikely, based on that poll in The Edoras Times last month, they won't drag me out of the Palace, behead me in Hornburg Park in front of a mob and throw what's left of me to the dogs. They'll just ask me to pack up my bags, give them the keys and go live in the country as a private person instead."

"You trust the common people too much."

"And you don't trust them enough." He scrunched his nose. "And stop calling them that. They're not common, or baseborn, or lowborn, or any of those other ridiculous, old-fashioned words you use. They're just people, granna. And they're all as loyal to Rohan as you or me."

"Would you take one of them for a wife?"

Take one of them for a wife. Bema. Where the _hell_ did she get these phrases? It was like being in some kind of costume drama on television. He nodded. "I would marry one of them, yes." He thought of Gwenna Freebourn, the daughter of an accountant and a teacher, and Seorsa Camelor, who was only titled by marriage, the daughter of a mailman and a cleaner.

"That will make what I'm about to suggest much easier, then."

A knot of dread formed in his stomach. Why did he feel as if her little speech had just been to set him up? And like the impulsive idiot he was, he'd walked right into her trap. "That depends. What are you about to suggest?"

"I want you to marry your cousin."

His lunch threatened to make a return. "I'm sorry, you _what_?"

"I want you to marry Thenwis."

"Why on earth would I ever do that?"

"Because as Lord Hereoch reminded me when we spoke, her petition could create a rival claim to the Crown, and I don't want what she's doing to become another coup."

"It won't become another coup. And any rival claim it creates will be settled by legal means." He was definitely going to have Hereoch killed. Or, at the very least taken into the Palace basement and thrashed until he apologized for his shortcomings. "And why the hell are you speaking to _Hereoch_ about it?"

"He's concerned about the monarchy's future."

"The man's a moron, granna. He's so stupid, his dog teaches _him_ tricks."

"Do _not_ speak about him that way. He's an Earl of the Kingdom of Rohan. He deserves your respect."

He deserved something all right, like a hard boot up his soft, stupid arse. "Granna, how many times do I have to explain this to you? We don't do coups or uprisings now. The whole concept is ridiculous."

"Not in my opinion, it isn't."

"Okay, is it a language thing we're dealing with here? Should I explain how the Constitution of Rohan works in Sindarin instead?" He slapped his hand on the table, feeling his temper (and his hangover) kick in. "What the _fuck_ is the problem?"

Her hand leaped out, striking him soundly across the face. "Don't curse at me, boy," she hissed. "I am your grandmother, and the Dowager Queen of Rohan. Remember your manners when you're speaking to me."

He'd gone too far, but so had she. "Stop calling me boy," he said, repeating Solwen's admonition to him. "I'm thirty-four. I haven't been a boy in even the legal sense for sixteen years."

"If you want to be treated as an adult, act like one."

"I'm not marrying Thenwis."

"Would you care to explain why not?"

"Well, for starters, she's my first cousin."

"Once removed."

She must be giving Eowyn lessons. "That doesn't matter. The relationship is still too close. "

"I'll admit it's not ideal, but it would only be a serious problem if there had been relatively frequent intermarriage between your families. I had someone at the College of Arms check the genealogical records for me, and there are no other crossing points in your family trees in the last eight generations."

So they didn't keep it in their pants, _or_ in the family, either. Awesome.

"She's too young," was his next complaint.

"Young enough she would easily be able to give you three or four children. And healthy enough as well, I'll add. No reproductive medical issues that I'm aware of."

Bema. She probably had a chart somewhere of Thenwis's ovulation cycle. "Did you look in her mouth, check the state of her teeth as well?"

"Don't give me cheek."

"I'm not giving you cheek, granna. Whether I want to marry her or not, whether I like her or not, please remember, Thenwis is a living, breathing human being, not a piece of meat to be traded and sold."

"I would accept your criticism, if it wasn't coming from a man who appears to pick up and throw away women with a frequency even the most committed libertine would be ashamed of."

She'd been reading the tabloids, then—not just The Edoras Times. "I'm not picking up and throwing away anyone, granna."

"You deny you've brought women to this Palace solely for your physical needs?"

He finished his tea, wishing he could refill the cup with beer or wine, slowly get hammered all over again. "Not at all. I'm quite happy to admit it. To you, at least. You'll forgive me if I don't want to share the details of my personal life with the writers at The Daily Sun or The Evening Record. But before you start telling me what a degenerate scoundrel I am, I'll remind you, we're living in 2020, not 1920. People have sex, granna. All the time. Without being married. With no expectations of ever getting married. For no reason other than it's extremely pleasurable and they enjoy it."

"Disgusting."

"If you do it right, yes."

Her hand twitched, as if she was itching to slap him again. "You shouldn't bring them here."

"That's none of your business."

"It's vulgar. And insulting to the dignity of the Crown. This is the Meduseld Palace, not a halfway house for your whores."

He wasn't going to allow her to provoke him. "If you say so, granna. And they're not whores. Whatever else I might do with them, I never, _ever_ pay them."

"This is another example of why you need to find a wife. Marriage will calm you, I think."

Bema. Now she was treating _him_ like a horse. Did she mean to have him gelded? "Not if I marry my twenty-year-old cousin, it bloody well won't."

"We wouldn't have the wedding this year," she said, as if that would somehow make it better. "We would wait until this time next year, allow Thenwis to mature a little, finish her degree course first."

"She has two years to go, not one."

"Yes, but she won't need a four year degree if she's going to be Queen. A three year degree will do."

"She'd still only be twenty-one."

" _I_ married at twenty-one."

"Eighty three years ago. Times were different back then. People don't really marry that young now."

"You proposed to Lothiriel when she was twenty-one."

That was a low blow, even for her. "Yes, and look how well that all turned out."

Morwen sighed. "Such a pity she turned you down. With her breeding and rank? What a Queen the girl would have made."

"I'm sure, if you try hard enough, you'll be able to come up with a reason why her answer was all my fault."

She barely even had to try. "You were far too impulsive. You should have waited, taken the time to get to know her better first. She wanted to be wooed, not overwhelmed."

"That had nothing to do with it. She was a _bitch_ , granna. With her precious Gondorian head stuck up her precious Gondorian arse. Wooing her for six months wouldn't have changed that."

"But we won't make that mistake again," she said, letting the slight against her own heritage pass. "You and Thenwis will have time to get to know each other. And Thenwis will have some time to learn what being a Queen Consort involves."

"You have answers for everything, don't you?"

"I'm a century old, boy. Of course I do."

Except one thing, it seemed. "Here's something you might not have considered."

She raised a disbelieving brow at him.

"Thenwis is a commoner. And you disapprove of royals marrying commoners with a fiery, burning passion that would put a Balrog to shame."

"I do, yes, but for the sake of the kingdom, I'm willing to overlook her lack of rank."

For the sake of the kingdom. Bema, what a crock of shit. "Just this once, though, right? We wouldn't want to make a habit of it? We don't want to dilute the precious bloodline too much."

"I don't think I care for your tone."

He cared for even less than her tone. "You have to admit, granna, it's a little bit rich. The whole problem with Thenwis stems from the fact you and King Thengel wouldn't allow your oldest daughter to marry an untitled man. And now, you want me to solve the problem you think is brewing by marrying her equally untitled granddaughter?"

"It was fifty years ago. As you yourself just pointed out, times were different then. I still believe Thengel and I did the right thing. Thengwen was our oldest child, and your uncle was our only son. She was far too close to the succession."

"Until you kicked her out of it completely."

"To your benefit," she said, eyes blazing with indignation again. "That kicking out, as you so delicately put it, that's the only reason you're on the throne. If we hadn't done that, Thengwen would have inherited the Crown when Theodred died, not you."

"I'm well aware of that."

"Show some gratitude then."

"Granna, did it ever occur to you, that I didn't really _want_ to be King? That I was quite happy to just be Earl of Aldburg instead?"

"Since when is this about being _happy_?" she said, wrinkling her nose at him again, as if he'd just uttered a filthy curse. "Being King is about duty. About serving something bigger and more important than your own wants and needs."

"I'm well aware of what the role means. I _have_ been doing it for the last eight years."

"Barely."

He'd had enough; he was utterly done.

He stood up, dropping his napkin on his plate. As calmly as he could, he said, "Granna, I think this lunch is done. I've heard everything I want to hear from you today. You need to get in your car, go home, and never, _ever_ speak to me on this subject again."

"Sit down," she said. "I'm not finished."

"I'm more than finished."

On the table, her hand clenched into a fist. "Sit down," she said, slowly enunciating each word, her eyes and voice turning to steel.

Reluctantly, he reclaimed his seat.

"I accept that what my husband and I did wouldn't be considered fair by today's standards. I accept that people might disapprove, and that what seemed normal back then would look narrow-minded and snobbish now." She sighed. "But as Gondorians are so fond of saying, what's done is done, and cannot be undone. Not without a complex legal battle at least. And we both know what the anti-monarchists would do with that."

"You don't want Thenwis to be Queen, then."

"Well, of course I don't," she snapped. "She's my great-granddaughter, my general heir, the eldest of the eldest of my eldest, and I love her dearly, but she has no right to wear the Crown. For better or worse"—the glare she gave him told him what answer she favoured—"you are the true and rightful King of Rohan."

"But you _do_ want her to be Queen Consort."

"You need a wife, and you need to eliminate her petition. Marry her, you solve both problems at once," she said, as if it was the simplest and easiest thing in the world.

"Have you considered, there's one massive block to your plan?" Eomer said.

"Which is?"

"Thenwis herself?"

"Explain."

"Granna, have you shared this proposal with Thenwis? Does she know you want me to marry her?"

"Of course not."

Back to the people being usable pieces of meat thing again. "You can't just decide her future without involving her, granna. You don't own her. She's not yours to use and dispose of as you see fit." And shockingly, neither was he.

"I'm sure, between the two of us, we'll be able to make her see sense."

"Like you were able to make her see sense when you had lunch with her? When you asked her to drop her petition, and she told you to go to hell?"

Her face was thunder. "How do you know about that?"

He shrugged. "I have my sources."

"Are you spying on me, boy?"

He thought about his Aunt Eorwena's grapevine comment. "No more than you're spying on everyone else."

"You get this from your mother, you know. She was exactly the same. Willful and disobedient. To the point of sometimes being an utterly unmanageable child."

"You mean, she had a will and a mind of her own?"

"I should have beaten it out of her. And she should have beaten it out of you."

"You already tried that." Only once—when his parents had found out what she'd done, they'd refused to leave him or Eowyn alone in their grandmother's care again. But it had been a _hell_ of a beating. "But I'm not remotely inclined to do something just because you want me to do it, so I don't think it actually worked."

"It's moments like this that make me wish your cousin was still alive."

So, they were onto the Theodred card, then. He should have known she would eventually play it. "Granna, believe it or not, that makes two of us."

"He was a far better man than you. And he would have been a far better King than you."

"And he was a far better grandson than me. And you loved him more, and he loved you more, and there's not a day that goes by when you don't wish I was the one who had died and he was here in my place." He broke off, stomach roiling, blood pounding in his ears, forcing himself to stay calm. "All that's absolutely true. But you know what else is true?"

"What?"

"Theodred wouldn't have married Thenwis, either." And not just because he would have been old enough by now to be Thenwis's father. "He wanted to marry for love, and to choose his own way as well. So, he would have given you the same answer I'm about to give you."

"Which is?"

"To get _stuffed_." And that was putting it politely—he did have _some_ manners, so he didn't use the word he really wanted to use. He rose again, and this time, he had no intention of sitting back down. "When I marry, and I _will_ marry, it will be to a woman I love and want to spend the rest of my life with, a woman of _my_ choosing, not yours. I am not marrying a twenty-year-old cousin I don't know and don't love, and who doesn't know or love me, just to satisfy the demands of an arrogant, demanding old _bitch_ who thinks people exist just to serve her needs, and who sees spies and assassins on every corner."

"You're going to lose your Crown."

"No, granna, I'm not. You might not be on my side, but the law of Rohan is. And to be honest, if I had to choose, I'd rather have the law." At least when the law gave him a beating, it was only in the figurative sense.

She rose from her chair, smoothing down the pleats of her dress. "I can't force you to do what I think you should do."

"Look at that? For once, you're absolutely right."

"But I can make life uncomfortable for you."

"You already make life uncomfortable for me! I'm thirty-four, and the King of Rohan, but for reasons obvious to neither man nor horse, you insist on treating me like an eight-year-old child! It's why we never bloody talk! So, unless you mean you're going to go home and throw your lot in with the Earl of Camelor, I honestly don't see how our relationship could be any worse."

"As if I would _ever_ give that man so much as a minute of my time."

He groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Granna, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you should?"

"Why?"

"Because the whole reason he's so angry with us as a family is because of what Uncle Theoden did," he shouted. "And what you and Thengel did to cover it all up after!"

"We were protecting the heir to the throne. If the truth had come out, the scandal would have ruined him! He might have had to give up his position as heir!"

"Camelor's father _died_ , granna. And nobody was ever held accountable for his death. I don't like Camelor, I think he's a vicious, arrogant, narcissistic prick, but I can sympathize with how that must have made him feel. He was ten, his sister was five, and his brother was four months away from even being born. They grew up without a father, not knowing how or why he died, except that Uncle Theoden was somehow involved, and none of you would say a damn thing."

Her hands clenched into fists. "It was an _accident_!"

"I know it was! But you should have admitted who was at fault, and what part of it _wasn't_ an accident! To them, at least, if nobody else. Apologized, and given the Camelors the closure they needed. But you did what you always do. You turned your back on them, and left them with nothing but half-truths and rumours, and now the current Earl hates us to the point of pretty much wanting to destroy us."

"If you're so eager to make amends with him, why don't you do it yourself?"

"You know what? That's a _really_ good idea. I might just do that. Call a press conference, present the evidence, tell the whole world what really happened."

"You don't know what really happened. None of you do."

He thumped his fist on the table, making the china and silverware rattle. "I know _exactly_ what happened," he hissed. "I've read the files. They're all in that special room at the back of the Archives. The one behind the double locked door, where we keep all of the incriminating information."

"You wouldn't _dare_."

He stepped close, staring her straight in the eye. " _Try_ me."

"You would really do that? Open those files, share them with the public, drag your late uncle's name through the mud? After what he did for his kingdom during the War? After everything he did for you and your sister? When he's not here to defend himself?"

On that last part at least, she made a good point. Sighing, he stepped away. "I wouldn't, no."

"Then, your only solution is to follow my example. Keep your mouth shut, and forget the whole thing ever happened. Leave the past in the past. No good will come of dragging it into the open now."

"Keep calm and carry on, right?"

"Keep calm, carry on, and if you're so worried about what we've done to provoke the Earl, don't fornicate with his wife!"

And there it was; what she thought was the winning hand.

Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "You think I don't know what you and Lady Camelor have been doing? And how long your sordid little trysts have been going on for?"

Sordid. Yes. They certainly were. "She's getting divorced."

"But she wasn't when your trysts started! She was still living with her husband. Bad enough you seem to bed women you randomly pick up in the street, but another man's _wife_? And a Rohanese countess at that?"

Because her being a Rohanese countess obviously made it _so_ much worse. He massaged his temples, trying to keep the building headache at bay. "Granna, I think we need to stop talking before either of us says something we _really_ regret." Or, before he picked her up and tossed her out the front door on her one-hundred-and-four-year-old arse.

"The only thing I really regret is thinking this conversation would be fruitful. I can see now, it won't." She raised her chin. "So, I'm going to go home, call my lawyer, and instruct him to make some serious changes to my will."

He actually laughed. "So, that's your answer? Threatening to cut me off? _Really_ , granna?"

"Without a penny," she said. " When I die, which we both know won't be many years from now, you'll get _nothing_. I will leave every last penny to your sister instead."

He wouldn't say it, but that actually suited him just fine. He wouldn't ever tell her that though—she would change her plans again just to spite him. "Just remember, not the house." He smiled politely. "That was only ever on loan, so technically, I still own it. You can't give that away."

"If you were my child, I would have drowned you when you were born."

"If you were my mother, I would have drowned myself."

He went to the wall to ring the bell. A few seconds later, the door swung open and Bregdan stepped in.

"You called, sir?" Bregdan said.

"I did, Bregdan, thank you, yes." He turned to his grandmother, giving her a spiteful smile. "Her Majesty wishes to leave. Could you please arrange for her car?"

"Of course, sir." Bregdan bowed and disappeared back out the door, probably going in search of Leofrick.

"Your Majesty, may I offer one final word of advice?" Morwen said.

He knew what the polite answer was. But after two hours, he couldn't be polite to her anymore. He'd tried to do what his aunt had said, but he couldn't see a way to get rid of the bad blood between them. It was sad, in a way, but it was what it was.

"Actually, no, you may not." He waved to the door. "Forgive me, but I've heard all the advice from you I want to hear."

After, he headed back to his rooms, wanting nothing more than to just sit in dark and think.

He pulled off his tie, threw it and his jacket onto a chair, kicked off his shoes, popped the button of his shirt, and without bothering to switch on the light, sank exhausted onto the couch.

It was cruel to think it, but it would honestly be easier if his grandmother died quietly in her sleep without them ever speaking to each other again. She was never going to change, and he was never going to be what she wanted him to be. Which was hardly surprising, since what she wanted him to be was Theodred instead of him. The rampant favouritism had never much bothered him when he was younger—he'd been in awe of his older cousin himself—but it was a waste of time and effort now. Theodred was dead and gone, and no amount of wishing would ever bring him back, or make the arrangement of the world anything other than what it was.

Someone knocked on the door.

It would be either Eowyn or Colwenna. He'd closed both of the outside doors, and the Palace wasn't under attack, so everyone else would know to leave him alone for now.

"Come in," he called out.

The head that appeared was Colwenna's. "Just came to see if you need anything, sir," she said.

"Maybe an axe to kill my grandmother with?"

She winced. "That good?"

He rubbed his hands over his face, weary to his very bones. "Colwenna, do you remember, that time when I was eight, and Eowyn was four, and mum and dad had to come to Edoras for a function, but they didn't want to bring us, so they sent us to granna's house for the night instead?"

"Was that the time with the ball?"

He nodded. "She told me not to play with my football inside, but it was raining outside, and I didn't want to get wet, so I ignored her, started kicking it around the hall, and I accidentally kicked it into her office, broke a priceless glass figurine her parents had given her as a wedding present." He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the moment with perfect clarity, but at the same time, trying to block it out. "She asked me if I had disobeyed her, and I said yes, because I was eight, and I knew perfectly well I had, and dad had told me never to lie. She took me up to my room and thrashed me within an inch of my life." Whether for breaking the figurine, or for disobeying her orders, he still wasn't quite sure.

She sighed. "I remember that, yes. And how long it took for the marks to fade."

"Then, you'll understand when I say, I would rather let Fastmer strip me naked, and give me that thrashing all over again, in front of every single member of the Palace staff, with live TV coverage and a reporter from every tabloid newspaper watching, than _ever_ have lunch with my grandmother again."

"I'm sure, if it came to it, Fastmer would be happy to help."

He had just enough energy to huff a small laugh. "He'd ask the TV crew to make a custom recording for him. With slo-mo replays of all the best bits."

She came to stand in front of him. "The good news is, it'll be a while before you have to see your grandmother again."

"At her funeral, I was hoping," he muttered.

"Your Majesty…"

"I know, I know. She's my grandmother, and I shouldn't wish her any ill will. But she's just…" he trailed off, not quite knowing how to put the maelstrom of feelings the lunch had triggered into words.

"A bitch, I think is the word you're looking for, sir."

He'd forgotten, how much Colwenna disliked the Old Queen, how many politely vicious run-ins the two women had had. Especially after their parents had died, when Colwenna had protected them from the worst of their grandmother's matriarchal excesses. "Bitch, yes, let's start with that. Work our way to something more constructive from there."

"Can I bring you anything?"

"Not right now, thank you, no. I was thinking, I might actually go back to bed."

"It's two o'clock in the afternoon," she said, apparently scandalized by the mere suggestion. He wasn't sure why—at least today, he would be going back to bed on his own.

"I'm tired. I didn't sleep well last night." Mostly because he hadn't gone to bed until two.

She sighed. "Just remember, you have a function tonight. The car will be ready for you at six-thirty."

"Nothing before then, though?"

"We figured between the party last night and the lunch with your grandmother today, you'd want the afternoon to yourself."

She'd figured right; he certainly did. "Come get me at five-thirty?"

"Of course, sir." She turned to head for the door.

"Colwenna?"

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Thank you," he quietly said.

"For what?"

He shrugged. "Just, you know. Being you. Caring." Bema knew his grandmother didn't. Or, if she did, not about him as a person, just about some abstract royal shit—the kingdom, the bloodline, the House, the Crown…

She smiled and nodded. "I'll see you in a few hours. Try to get some rest."

He prised himself off the couch, stumbled through to his bedroom, and without bothering to change out of his clothes, burrowed back into his bed, pulling pillows and covers over his head.

He had the next three hours to himself. And he was going to spend them thinking about absolutely fucking _nothing_.


	43. Chapter 43

A knock at the door; before she could answer, Erland stuck his head in. "Dinner's almost ready," he said.

Solwen closed her book and set it aside; the history of the Oath of Eorl would just have to wait. "What are we having?" she said. Their grandfather had come into town for the night, so Hedwin had probably made something nice for them.

"Not sure. Something fancy with meat."

Something fancy with meat. Bema. Talk about attentive and helpful? "You know, Erland, if that's the type of answer you give when a good-looking guy asks you a simple question, it's no wonder you can't get laid."

"Says the woman who hasn't put a ball in the other team's net for almost a year."

As if she (or her various body parts) needed to be reminded of that…

"Speaking of putting balls in people's nets," he said, coming into the room, pushing the door over behind him.

"Uh huh?"

"Have you heard anything more from the King?" he whispered.

Like there was any immediate danger of her scoring any kind of goal there. "I haven't, no."

"Are you expecting to?"

She swung her legs off the bed to jam her feet in her slippers. "Not really sure. If he was any other regular guy, and he hadn't been in touch by now, I'd probably think he'd just decided he didn't want to see me again."

"But the King of Rohan's as far from regular as a guy can be."

And that was the problem. "I have no idea if he hasn't been in touch because he's not interested, or because he's been so busy with being the King he hasn't had time to think about it." She grabbed her brush to quickly yank it through her hair. "And I don't have a way to get in touch with him. So, if he's interested, I'll just need to wait and see what he does." She just wished he would do it more quickly. She wasn't the most patient of people with this kind of thing, had never really understood the whole 'keep cool and play hard to get' game. She wouldn't let him put a ball in the net on the first try, but she would at least like to get the players onto the pitch, get the warm-up session going.

"Guess that means you still have no idea why we've been invited to the Midsummer party?"

"Correct."

"And you still haven't told everyone else," he said, pointing downstairs. "About our invitations, I mean."

She turned to shoot him a glare. "Why do I have to be the one to tell them?"

"Um, because you're the reason we got invited?"

"We don't know that for sure."

"Well, it's sure as shit not because of anything I've ever done. I've never met the man in my life." He flapped a hand at her. "You're the one who had lunch with him."

She wouldn't admit it, but he was probably right. "I've just been waiting for the right moment. Dad was away, then back, then away again, then you had your exam, then Astalor was out last night, then grandpa arrived, then Nediriel was out this morning." There was never peace and calm in this bloody house.

"No time like the present. It's Sunday dinner. Everyone's here. Even grandpa. And you probably shouldn't leave it much longer. It's already been five days."

"Fine," she muttered, throwing her brush on her bed. "I'll tell them tonight, when the right moment comes."

"Good." He pulled the door open.

"Solwen! Erland!" their dad shouted up from downstairs. "Dinner's out!"

Dinner—the something fancy with meat—turned out to be Beef Bruinen, one of her all-time favourite dishes.

Their grandfather sliced and served the beef, their dad took care of the wine, Nediriel brought out and carved up the bread.

She kept waiting for the right moment. But between one thing and another—plates being handed over, bread and side dishes being passed around, wine being spilled, cleaned up and replenished, Erland and Astalor fighting over the last roast potato, Nediriel telling Astalor to stop texting and put his phone down—the right moment just never quite came.

Erland kept looking her way, ever-so-slightly raising a brow, prompting her to frown at him and ever-so-slightly shake her head back.

As she was cutting up her last slice of beef, their dad sighed and dropped his cutlery on his plate. "Okay, enough of this crap, what the hell is going on?" he said.

Nediriel frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"This pair here," their dad said, pointing from Solwen to Erland. "They keep shooting furtive looks back and forth at each other. Something funny's going on." To both of them directly, he added, "Either the two of you take it elsewhere, or you spill the details right now."

Not for the first time, Solwen dearly wished she was the Earl of Hereoch's daughter. She was quite sure Hereoch wouldn't notice if all of his dinner guests were having sex on his dining room table, much less that some of them were trading furtive looks with each other.

"Solly has something to tell you," Erland said before she could figure out how to broach the topic herself.

Traitorous bloody prick...

Everyone looked her way—Nediriel, their grandfather, their dad. Even Astalor was paying attention.

There was no easy way to deal with this—time to just bite the bullet and get it done. "We, um, we got something interesting in the mail on Tuesday. Erland and me, I mean." If she was going down, she was damn well taking him with her.

Their dad raised a brow. "Oh? What was that?"

"An invitation."

"To what?"

She grabbed her glass to take a long gulp of her wine. "To the King's Midsummer party."

Silence.

"Sorry, did you just say you've been invited to the King's Midsummer party?" their dad repeated, looking from one of them to the other.

Solwen nodded. "Up at the Palace. On the first of July."

"How in Bema's name did you manage that?" their grandfather wanted to know.

An obviously affronted Astalor added, "And why the hell was it just you two? Why not the rest of us as well?"

Nediriel sighed. "Astalor—"

"I don't know," Solwen interjected, before it became a full-on fight. She'd gone over some answers to this in her head, had long since decided honesty (or ignorance) was their best defense. If she told them even a harmless, partial truth—that she'd had lunch with a guy who knew someone who worked at the Palace—their dad would start digging for more. And he wouldn't stop digging until he'd raked up the whole bloody story. The only way to keep him off their backs for now was to give him absolutely nothing at all. She used her glass to point at Erland. "We talked about it when the invitations arrived, and neither of us has any idea."

Erland smirked. "I think they put us on the wrong list. I think they meant to add us to the list of blackballed people, and somebody got their wires crossed."

"Why the hell would you ever be blackballed?" their grandfather demanded, outraged by the mere suggestion. "You've never done anything wrong."

Their dad pointed at her. "Solly has."

"Duncan, she punched a man who threatened to rape her," their grandfather said, turning his outrage on his son. "She wasn't the one in the wrong that day. And you bloody well know that as well as I do. You're just lucky I wasn't there, because I'd have cut the sick bastard's balls off." He stabbed a piece of beef. "I still don't know why the fuck you didn't."

"Dad…"

"Is that really what he said?" Astalor said, eyes going wide in alarm, looking from his grandfather to his father and back.

Solwen put down her wine to hold up her hands. "Can we _please_ not talk about this tonight? It was ten years ago. It's done and gone. And it wasn't a very pleasant experience, so if you don't mind, I'd rather not drag it up all over again." She just wanted to have a nice dinner. Was that really too much to ask?

Her grandfather's smile was apologetic. "Sorry, sweet pea. Didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine. I know you didn't."

"So, nobody's going to answer my question then?" Astalor said, looking around the table.

"You're right. We're not," said Erland, giving Astalor a look that pretty much told him to shut the hell up.

"But—"

"Well, I think it's wonderful," Nediriel said, rushing in to smooth over the moment. "The invitations, I mean," she hastily added.

"You really mean that?" Solwen asked.

"Why on earth wouldn't I mean it?"

"We were a bit worried you would be hurt," said Erland, answering for them. "Because it's just the two of us, and not everyone else as well."

Sighing, Nediriel spooned some more carrots onto her plate. "I'll be honest and say, it would be nice if the rest of us had been invited as well, but better two of us than none of us, I think."

"Yeah, except it's _always_ those two who get the interesting stuff," Astalor grumbled as he stabbed a potato. "It's _never_ me."

"Hold your tongue, lad," their grandfather said. "You're not even twenty-two yet. Your turn at the interesting stuff will come."

As long as by 'interesting stuff', he didn't mean punching would-be rapists, of course…

"Ten pounds says it's because of Solly," their dad said, winking at her.

"What makes you say that?" Solwen asked.

"Your brother's never done anything that would bring him to the King's attention."

Solwen's blood ran Snowbourn-cold; surely their dad hadn't figured out what had happened with her and the King? "But neither have I," she said as calmly as she could. "Not recently, I mean."

"Course you have," their dad said.

He knew. The devious arsehole already _knew_. He was just bloody toying with them. "When?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "Solly, you wrote to him to ask him to lift your Ban."

"Of course, yes." The tension drained away—how could she have forgotten her letter? "I forgot about that."

"It's the only contact anyone in this family has had with the King in the last ten years." He shrugged and sipped on his wine. "So, I can't see what the hell else it could be."

"Have you accepted yet?" Nediriel asked.

Solwen shook her head. "Not yet, no. We'll have to respond by Friday. We wanted to tell you guys first, make sure you didn't object."

"Even if we had objected, that wouldn't be a reason not to accept."

"I know. But we're Hamelmarks. We're supposed to stick together." She looked to Erland for confirmation; he smiled and rolled his eyes at her. "We wouldn't do something if the rest of you didn't want us to do it."

Her grandfather patted her hand. "That's my girl."

"I had to thrash that into her, you know," her dad said, reaching out with his fork to spear another slice of beef. "You wouldn't believe the fight she put up."

That was too much for Erland. "You know, dad, it honestly amazes me sometimes, how absolutely full of shit you are," he said, making Astalor snicker.

"I thrashed your sister the right amount, but I don't think I thrashed you enough."

"Och, away and shite yourself," their grandfather said. "Erland's right. You've never laid a bloody finger on any of them."

"And there's not a week that goes by when I don't bitterly regret that decision."

"What's the dress code?" Nediriel asked, sending a soul-blasting glare in her husband's direction, cowing him into grinning silence.

"Semi-formal attire," Solwen said.

"You'll be fine, then," their dad said to Erland. "You can just wear a nice suit." Grinning again, he gestured at Solwen. "Your sister'll have a bigger problem."

That problem taking the form of a cocktail dress and heels, of course…

Solwen smiled at Nediriel. "I was wondering, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, would you help me shop for a dress?"

"I'd _love_ to," Nediriel said, her face lighting up as if Solwen's question had just made her whole year. "And you'll need shoes as well. I know _just_ the right place."


	44. Chapter 44

**Monday June 1, 2020**

There was no paper under Eowyn's arm, and she wasn't scowling at him as if she wanted to drag him outside and beat him to death with the heel of her shoe, so she must not have any bad news (or bad behaviour) to berate him about this morning.

"Good morning," she said, smiling warmly. On her way to her chair, she laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Something was wrong. Or she wanted something. Or someone had killed her and replaced her with a robot clone while she slept.

She frowned as she flipped out her napkin. "What's the matter?" she said.

"Why do you think anything is the matter?"

"Because you're looking at me as if you're waiting for me to turn to stone or burst into flames."

"It's just, you're being awfully nice to me today." Almost as nice as she'd been to him on Saturday night. But it was eight o'clock on a Monday morning—it couldn't possibly be because she'd just had three glasses of wine.

"Am I not allowed to be awfully nice to my older brother?"

"Allowed, yes. Just not usually willing." Although, that might be mostly his fault—he shouldn't give her so many reasons to want to be angry with him instead.

"I just thought, since you had such a stressful end to your birthday party"—she kindly didn't remind him the stressful end had been all his own fault—"and a stressful lunch with granna yesterday, you should have a nice, relaxing start to your week."

He picked up the pot to pour her some tea. "Thank you. That's very sweet."

"I mean, Bema knows, you'll be back to wanting to have people killed before you know it. Parliament re-assembles today—"

"—but it won't be in session until next week," he added. "I have to open the bloody thing first." And what a rigamarole that would be. So much pomp and pageantry, just to get the business of government running again. It was giving him a stomach ache just thinking about it.

She nodded as she sipped on her tea. "So, you won't have to worry about Thenwis's petition just yet."

Should he tell her what their grandmother said? How the Old Queen thought he should solve the Thenwis problem? He wanted to hear her opinion on the proposal, but he was terrified she might agree with Morwen's suggestion. He'd told their grandmother to get stuffed, but he could never say that to his sister as well. Not seriously, at least. She was the one family member—the only person apart from Colwenna—who'd been through all the high and low points of the last twenty-two years with him. It would break his heart if she decided to side with their grandmother now.

"So," she said, slightly too ominously for his liking.

"So, what?"

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"When?"

She heaved a sigh. "Yesterday, Eomer. At the lunch, after granna asked me to leave. What did she say that she didn't want me to hear?"

"Is this why you're being so nice to me? Because you want me to spill the beans?"

She grabbed a hard-boiled egg from the bowl. "Colwenna told me I should learn how to use the carrot instead of the stick. I'm trying to follow her advice."

"No more beating me with a ruler, then?"

"I can't promise, but I'll do my best."

He scooped up some of his omelette, washed it down with a mouthful of tea. "She actually had quite a lot to say."

"Anything interesting?"

"Let's see now," he murmured, taking a moment to mentally put his list together. "She wants me to get married, have some kids, be a better king, although I think that was mostly about the getting married and having kids part, not be vulgar, act like an adult, not trust people, not have sex, not be impulsive, be grateful, not be insolent, stop fornicating, which I think is pretty much the same thing as not having sex, but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, be less like me and more like Theodred, or actually, just _be_ Theodred." He wagged his fork at her. "Oh, and before I forget, she wants me to marry Thenwis."

A look of horror spread on her face. "She actually said that?"

"She did, yes. And not as an impulsive suggestion. As a fully-formed, strategic plan." He scooped some more omelette. "She's been talking to Hereoch and his friends, it seems."

"Hereoch, Bema," she muttered.

"Let me know when you reach the point where you want to have him murdered as well. Between the two of us, we can probably get the job done."

"I assume that means granna's latched on to the idea of Thenwis being a rival claim to the Crown?"

He nodded. "She thinks Camelor and Keveleok are going to use Thenwis and her petition as a reason to start an armed rebellion that'll end with both of us being dragged out of our beds and torn apart by a howling mob."

"You're not serious, surely?"

"Maybe not the howling mob bit, but yes. She thinks what Thenwis is doing will somehow lead to a coup."

"She does understand, we have a Constitution now?" She grabbed a knife to open her egg, decapitating it with a vigour that almost made Eomer flinch. "That we don't really do coups anymore?"

"I tried explaining that part to her, but she didn't seem very interested in listening to me. She was too busy trying to tell me how much I need to protect myself and how shifty and untrustworthy all the common folk are."

"Common? Really? That nonsense again?"

"Was quite something, actually. Listening to her. Felt like I'd fallen through a time warp."

"It's hardly surprising she's so stuck in the past. You would be as well if you were her age. She thinks our grandfather's reign was some kind of golden, idyllic era."

" _Wasn't_ it some kind of golden, idyllic era?" he asked, half-grinning.

She gave him a scornful look. "If you were male, rich and you spoke Common. Not so much for everyone else."

Except, in Thengel's reign, 'everyone else' had been maybe ninety percent of the population. "Was like being in one of those shitty costume dramas you and Elfhelm both love. You know, like that one set in the early 1900s, about the Earl with all the daughters?" He snorted, remembering one of the Old Queen's more ridiculous lines. "She actually asked me if I would take a commoner as a wife. Not if I would marry a commoner. Take one as a wife. Who _talks_ like that?"

"Why was she talking about fornicating?"

Eomer's fork froze over his plate. "Sorry?"

"You said one of the things she wants you to do is not fornicate," Eowyn recalled. "I mean, I'm not opposed to the sentiment, Bema knows our lives would be a lot easier sometimes if you could just keep your trousers zipped up, but it's a rather particular word to use. What on earth did she mean?"

"Right, that. Yeah." He scooped up another forkful. "She was talking about Seorsa Camelor."

"She _knows_ about that?"

"Apparently, yes." And, more alarmingly, when it had started as well—the one part of the whole thing he didn't want his sister to know. If Eowyn ever dug up that truth, she would throw the carrot away, go back to the stick in no time at all. A heavy one. With something painful and whip-like attached at the end.

"Granna's better informed than we thought."

He remembered Eorwena's remark, about how granna wasn't just on the grapevine, granna was the grapevine. But two could play the information gathering game—they had their own people and sources. "Don't worry. We're better informed than granna thought as well."

"Oh?"

"She was surprised we knew about her lunch with Thenwis."

Her hand froze reaching for a slice of toast. "You _told_ her that?"

"I certainly did. Was worth it, just to see the look on her face. Like she'd just stepped on a turd and dragged it over her nicest rug."

"It might have been more tactical to keep that part to yourself."

He shrugged. "What's done is done, can't be undone." Or however that proverb went.

She cut her piece of toast into four equally-sized slices. "What was your answer? On the Thenwis suggestion, I mean."

"No, of course."

"And how did she take it?"

"How do you think?"

"Hmm," was all Eowyn said. She dunked a piece of toast in her egg and took a bite, then stared absently at the table, frowning, chewing slowly.

His stomach clenched; he didn't like what that 'hmm' meant. "Wynna?"

"What?"

" _Please_ don't tell me you agree with granna," he pleaded.

She worked her way through the rest of the slice. "How would you feel if I told you I do?"

Bad enough to have his grandmother against him, but to have Eowyn oppose him as well? His omelette threatened to make a return; the mere thought of not having his sister's support made him want to be sick. "I'm not sure," he said.

"Would you consider it? Marrying Thenwis, I mean?"

He put down his fork, perched his elbows on the table and laid his head in his hands, running his fingers through his too-short hair. He didn't know what to say. The one thing he _did_ know was that he didn't want to fight with Eowyn about this stuff anymore. She was his sister, his only living immediate family member, and except for Colwenna, the person he trusted most in the world. They shouldn't be fighting. Not when they really only had each other.

And what if the Old Queen was right? What if he _was_ being selfish, and the right response was to man the fuck up, and put Crown and country before his own needs? Not for the first time, he dearly wished their parents were here. Their mum would know what to do. She'd _always_ known what to do. Although, if their mum was still alive, she would be Queen of Rohan right now, so the whole issue would be a moot point.

"Wynna, if you really think I should marry Thenwis, then, yes, for you, I would consider it." He kept his head down; he didn't want to see her reaction, in case what he saw was relief.

"You're serious?"

He scrubbed his scalp again. "I'm just… I'm _tired_ , okay?"

"Of what?"

"More than anything, of being the reason you're always so angry. Of fighting with you. Of being such a shitty brother," he quietly added.

A spoon clanged on a saucer. "Oh, for the love of Bema, will you stop being such a drama queen, please?"

He jerked his head up. She didn't look relieved, just slightly pissed off. "I'm not a shitty brother?"

"Shockingly, no." She dipped another slice of toast in her egg. "I mean, you haven't always been the nicest brother, but it's not like you've ever been an out-and-out monster to me, either. I would say on the whole, you've been not bad."

Talk about damning with faint praise. "Okay, but when have I ever _not_ been nice to you?"

"You tried to persuade me I was adopted."

His marital status wasn't the only subject she gathered and gnawed bones for, it seemed. "We've been over that."

"You broke my antique musical jewellery box."

"It was an accident."

"But you _did_ break it. And then you tried to blame it on the dog."

He sighed. "Yes."

She wasn't done yet. "You built a toy fort around me, put a piece of cardboard over the top and left me stuck inside for an hour."

"When I was _six_ , Wynna," he thundered. "And you spent the whole hour giggling. Don't go playing the victim here."

"You replaced my photo in Uncle Theoden's office with a photo of the Prime Minister's daughter."

"Oh, come on, that one was funny."

"It was three months before anyone noticed!"

"That was Uncle Theoden's fault. Not mine." And in hindsight, an early warning sign of bigger problems to come. Not noticing a photo change one week, not noticing vast sums of money going missing from the family coffers the next…

She grabbed a spoon to excavate what was left of her egg. "I'm changing my mind," she said. "You've been a _horrible_ brother."

"Yes, but in a normal sense. You go ask Cenefer Elgoll what Elfhelm did to her when they were kids, she'll tell you some stories that'll turn your hair white. He used to lock her in the dog cage, and smear toothpaste in her hair while she was sleeping. And one time, when she was eight, he hid under her bed in an Uruk Hai outfit. Grabbed her feet when she got up to go to the bathroom, scared her so badly she screamed the house down, and wouldn't sleep in her room for a month. And two years ago, when he went to pick her up at the airport, he met her at the Arrivals gate with a sign that said 'welcome home from sex rehab'. Least I never did shit like that."

'You've still been a horrible brother," she muttered.

"Horrible enough that you think I should marry Thenwis to atone for my sins?"

She sighed. "Not that horrible, no."

" _Thank_ you."

"But you _do_ need to marry."

"Almost," he said, holding up his thumb and index finger a centimetre apart. "We almost had one whole conversation where you didn't nag me about it."

"What did you tell granna, by the way?" she asked, ignoring his complaint. "When she said you should marry Thenwis?"

"I think my actual words were 'get stuffed', but I was thinking something stronger."

Eyes wide, she paused mid-chew. "You told granna to _get stuffed_?"

"Yes."

"To her _face_?"

"No, Wynna, I wrote it in a note and had a butler pass it to her. Of _course_ to her face."

"What did she do?"

"There was a bit of back and forth after that, but in the end, she got up and left, and threatened to cut me out of her will."

"Does that bother you?"

He picked up the teapot to refill her cup, then refilled his own. "To be honest, not really, no. She said she would leave her estate to you instead."

"She's probably been looking for an excuse." Her smile was ever-so-slightly triumphant. "She's always liked me more than she likes you."

"That's not difficult, since she's never really liked me at all." He would love to know why—there had to be more than just the figurine incident at play. "She's never said it to my face, but I'm pretty sure she sometimes wishes I had died instead of Theodred."

"She definitely favoured him, that's for sure. Not that he ever tried to make anything of it. He never used granna's preference for him as an excuse to mistreat you, I mean."

On that front, their older cousin had been the best and kindest of men. "The very opposite, most of the time. He would defend me, tell granna to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. Politely, of course." He scooped up the last of his omelette. "But he was the future King, and she worshipped the ground he walked on, so she always did what he said."

Her gaze turned to the window. She watched the birds in the bath, half-heartedly chewing another slice of her toast.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "It's just… do you ever wonder, what our lives might be like now, if Theodred had never died?"

He assumed she didn't mean if he had died instead. "Course I do," he quietly said. Sometimes, after the busiest days, he lay awake in bed at night thinking of nothing else, going over what had actually happened, imagining all the alternate versions of events. And not just about Theo—about their parents as well. Who and what would he be now, if their mother, father and cousin were all still in the land of the living? Not King of Rohan, obviously, but what else? "The shock of Theo's death brought on Uncle Ted's first stroke, so he'd probably still be alive."

"He'd been in poor health for a few years, so that seems highly unlikely."

"But not impossible."

"I suppose not, no."

"I might still be in the Army." He counted the years. "If I'd stayed, I'd be a Captain by now. Maybe even a Major."

She sighed. "And I'd be living somewhere quiet and peaceful, away from all this chaos and noise."

The ache in her voice almost caused him pain. "It won't be for much longer, I promise."

"With a huge garden," she said. "Full of trees and flowers. With a lawn I can roll around on. There's no lawn here."

"We have the terraces," he said, waving outside.

"It's not the same. I want something sunny and green." Briefly, she squeezed her eyes shut. "Something beautiful. Something that grows. Not a gloomy old Palace full of whispers and ghosts," she said, echoing Nini's complaint. "And somewhere with carpets," she added.

Her and her war on King Aldor's floors. "I don't mind the wooden floors. They go well with the Palace aesthetic."

"You won't say that when you have kids."

"Sorry?"

"When you have kids," she repeated. "Just wait until one of them falls and knocks their head on the wood. You'll be all over a nice, forgiving carpet then."

"That's… actually a really good point." The Meduseld Palace was many things, but it wasn't really a family home. It was large and labyrinthine and draughty, and full of precious objects and treacherous stairs. And spiders. So many fucking spiders; he fucking _hated_ the things. Maybe when he got married, he should move to a more modern house, leave the Palace to become a heritage building instead. Then they could implement Eowyn's plan of opening it to tourists in summer.

She sighed. "Unfortunately, Theodred _did_ die. And you're King now, whether we like it or not. Whether granna likes it or not."

"She absolutely doesn't like it. She made that _abundantly_ clear."

"That's too bad for her. And too bad for her marriage idea."

"No marrying Thenwis, then?"

She shook her head as she sipped on her tea. "No marrying Thenwis, no."

He smirked, remembering something else their aunt had told him. "Oh, and you'll be pleased to know, I won't be marrying Seorsa Camelor, either."

"Why on _earth_ are you telling me that?"

"Nini asked me if I was planning to marry her once she's divorced," he said. "I told her I wasn't. Figured I should tell you as well."

"You and Nini obviously had an interesting chat."

"Very."

"What else did the two of you discuss?"

"The usual," he said with a light shrug.

"Let me guess. You told her about your problems, and she listened to you, gave some advice, but mostly sat on the fence?"

"That was the gist of it, yes." He finished his tea. "She told me she thought Thenwis's petition would fail, but when I asked her if she thought what Thenwis was asking for is fair, she wouldn't give me an answer."

"That would be taking a stance. You know Nini. She'll never do that."

"You have to wonder, what kind of shit she must have put up with over the years, that she's so desperate to just stay out of everything now."

"Can't have been easy, having someone like granna as a mother."

"Or King Thengel as a father. We never knew him, but it doesn't sound as if he would have been an easy man to live with."

She grabbed an orange and started to peel it. "She actually called me. Nini, I mean."

"Really?"

"Last night, while you were out at your thing."

"What did she want?" Eomer asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer already.

"To check how well the lunch with granna had gone. I told her granna had asked to speak to you alone, and that you'd gone back to bed after."

"Anything else?"

"She told me she thought I should give you some space," she said, prising the orange apart to pick out a segment.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, she thinks I shouldn't be quite so interested in what your private life looks like."

"Huh," he said, trying to look and sound surprised.

She used the orange segment to point at him. "You asked her to tell me that, didn't you?"

"Absolutely not," he said, pouring every last ounce of energy he had into telling the world's most convincing lie. "If she said that, it was entirely of her own volition. But I certainly appreciate the sentiment she's trying to convey."

"You think I'm being too nosy?"

"Nosy's a rather strong word. How about we say attentive instead?"

She rolled her eyes. "You think I'm being too _attentive_ , then?"

"Just a little bit, yes."

She bit into her orange. "How about, I make you a deal?" she said slowly.

"I'm listening."

"I'll agree to pay less attention to what you're doing in your private life…"

"Uh huh?"

"If you promise not to turn around and start having your little flings all over again."

"I already promised you that."

"And you broke that promise after five weeks."

There was that tiny hiccup, yes. "I promise, if you leave me in peace, and stop trying to find out what I'm doing, I won't go back to having flings." And this time, he really meant it; he couldn't afford to fuck up again.

"I'll believe you, if you answer one question."

His stomach clenched again. "Shoot."

"Did you have lunch with someone here last Sunday?"

How to answer? He knew she already knew he had, so if he said 'no', she would never trust him, but if he said 'yes', would she try to dig up more? "I did, yes," he said, deciding honesty was the best response. "And it wasn't Elfhelm," he added, remembering who the lunch should really have been with. "Someone else."

"A female someone else?"

"A woman, yes."

"And it was just lunch?"

"Just lunch, yes. No entertaining. Just two people chatting and getting to know each other."

"Just so you know, I'm not going to ask who."

"Thank you. I appreciate that." He didn't think she would disapprove—she _had_ invited Solwen to the Midsummer party in the vain hope he would hit it off with her—he just didn't want the pressure sharing the news with her would bring. Solwen was single, and an earl's daughter. If Eowyn thought they were dating (whatever the word 'dating' meant), she would start picking out wedding colours and china patterns.

"Not that I wouldn't love to know, but if we're going to make this deal work, I shouldn't ask, and I shouldn't try to find out," she said.

"Exactly."

"But this wasn't just one of your flings? This was someone you might actually want to see again?"

"I think so, yes." Which reminded him—he still had to speak to Colwenna, ask her to find some room in his schedule to meet with Solwen again. "I just need to find the time."

She snorted. "Good luck with that for the next few weeks."

"We'll work something out."

Her smile was hopeful, her tone became kind. "And if it becomes something more, you will tell me, I hope?"

"If it becomes something more, I will eventually tell you, yes. But we've only had one lunch, so early days yet." And that one lunch had been an accident—not something he'd actually planned. "I could have another lunch with her, realize I don't actually click with her after all."

"But that means you click with her now?"

"So far, I think so, yes."

She nibbled another orange segment. "And do you think she clicks with you?"

"I've no idea. You'd have to ask her." But his instincts told him yes, she did. Solwen hadn't outright flirted with him, but some of the things she'd said had come pretty close. At least, he thought they had. It might just be more of that bloody Marcher snark.

"Except I can't. Because I don't know who she is."

He smiled serenely. "Shame, that, isn't it?"

"Speaking of asking people things…" she said, starting on another piece of her orange.

This didn't sound good. "Uh huh?"

"What's the story with Mordulf? When I sent him the invite to your birthday party, he told me wouldn't be home on leave until October. Did he tell you why he's home now?"

"You could say that, yes." Eomer finished his tea. "He resigned his Army commission last week."

"He _resigned_?"

Eomer nodded. "Completely. He's out, done and home for good."

"Did he tell you why?"

"I tried to ask him, once the party was over, after we came back to the Palace, but all he would tell me was that it was time to move on."

"You think there's more to it than that?"

"Almost certainly. And I think he would have told me, if it had just been me and him. He seemed reluctant to open up with Elfhelm there."

"I thought he and Elfhelm liked each other."

"They do. But you know how Elfhelm can be." He made a chatting mouth gesture with his hand. "Tends to repeat things he shouldn't."

"I hope it wasn't something bad. Why he resigned his commission, I mean."

"So do I." But Eomer had the horrible feeling her hope would be in vain. "I know how he thinks. He's not the kind of person who just rushes into something. He'll need some time to turn it over in his head first. He'll tell me what happened when he's good and ready to tell me."

"Is that why they paired the two of up when you were at the War College?" she asked, grinning slightly.

She'd lost him there. "Sorry?"

"You said Mordulf's not the kind of person who just rushes into something," she said. "But _you_ absolutely are. But that also means you can be decisive when you need to be, while he has a tendency to over-analyze and dither. So, I was wondering if they put you together in the hope some of your personality traits might rub off on each other?"

That was an interesting take. "No idea. But it's possible, yes."

She ate her last orange segment, cleared up the peel and dropped it on her plate. "Well, whatever the reason for his decision turns out to be, let me know if there's any way I can help."

"Of course."

She pushed her chair back, dropping her napkin on her plate. "You'll forgive me if I don't hang around to chat, but my first engagement is at nine."

"Mine too," he said, putting his cutlery together. "What's yours?"

"I'm visiting the Children's Hospital to open the new Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit. What about you?"

"I'm attending a meeting of the Board of Trustees for the Royal War Museum. Then I'm having the new Dunnish ambassador in for his welcome lunch. Then I have a meeting with Fenbrand and Harstan to finalize the details for Thursday." The State Opening of Parliament—he wasn't looking forward to that. "Then I'm meeting with some members of the King's Royal Fusiliers. Then I'm attending the Challenge Cup Final." The last one at least should be fun.

"Busy day."

"They always are."

"You should speak to Colwenna," she said. "Make sure you make carve out some time for that follow-up date."

"I will, don't worry."

She rose from her chair. "Since your schedule's so busy, I probably won't see you for dinner tonight."

"You won't, no."

"Enjoy your day as much as you can. I'll catch up with you later?"

"You certainly will."

Eowyn strode through the double doors, aiming for her own rooms right at the other end of the Hall. It occurred to her then, that maybe it shouldn't always be her that did all the walking. Maybe next week, Eomer could come to her place instead.

As she was passing the guards, she realized something wasn't quite right. She frowned and turned, addressing the guard she knew best. "Dernbrand, shouldn't Fastmer be here today? Isn't he usually on duty on Mondays?"

Dernbrand nodded. "He is, ma'am, yes. But he's up in Isendale with Algrin today."

"Why on earth has he gone to Isendale?" And with Algrin, of all people. They were both dedicated men, but for obvious reasons, the head of the King's security team and the head of the King's personal guard didn't always see eye to eye.

"They've gone to look at houses, ma'am. For the King's Midsummer vacation."

Eomer's trip to the March, of course. She'd forgotten all about that, what with the birthday party and the Old Queen's visit. "The King only decided on the trip last week. That's rather efficient."

Another nod. "It is, ma'am, yes. Fenbrand gave us a provisional list of houses last night. Algrin wanted to have a first look today, before he had to change his focus to worry about the State Opening of Parliament instead."

Yes, that would certainly demand both Algrin and Fastmer's attention. "How many places were they looking at? Do you have any idea?" Not that she really needed to know, since she wouldn't set foot in wherever Eomer chose, but her curiosity was getting the better of her.

"I think Fastmer said six, ma'am." Dernbrand smiled. "But don't quote me on that."

"Thank you, Dernbrand. You've been very helpful."

"Of course, Your Highness."

Eowyn turned to stride away.

Six houses. That sounded like a reasonable number…

Algrin strolled out onto the lawn—a lush, verdant, manicured square. He almost felt guilty for leaving footprints in it. "So, what do you think?" he said, turning to wave at the house.

His colleague didn't immediately answer, but slowly did a three-sixty turn, scanning the property as he gathered his thoughts. "Most of it's perfect," Fastmer eventually said. "Private access road, good layout with no hidden spots or line-of-sight issues, construction's solid, windows are tinted, and bullet-proof glass, has a full perimeter wall with motion and night vision detectors, three-sixty cameras with an intercom at the main gate. Even has a panic room in the basement."

"But?" Algrin prompted, sensing there was something Fastmer didn't approve of.

Fastmer waved at the end of the garden, which didn't end so much as gradually vanish into the lake. "I don't like the lake access. It's too open, much harder to protect. _And_ a serious privacy issue."

That last part worried Algrin as well—a neighbour with a long distance lens could make things very difficult for them. "We could add some screening. Something with all the usual gadgets built in," he said. "Like the one we used in Strone a few years ago."

"We could, yes."

"I wouldn't suggest it at all if the house itself wasn't perfect."

"I won't argue you with you there. It's _exactly_ what the King will want. Right style, right location, right amenities, right number of rooms, plenty of space to bring a few bikes. Fastmer waved at the separate, one-level building across the lawn. "Even the staff quarters are perfect."

"But the lake access still makes you nervous." And rightly so, since it left the back garden more or less completely exposed.

"Would help if I knew who else was on it."

"The lake?"

Fastmer nodded. "How many properties, and who all the owners are." He smirked. "If we'd be sharing the water with the local paddle-boarding club, there's not a snowball's chance on Mount Doom we're picking this place."

Algrin turned to the house. "Miss Borleth," he called out, summoning the leasing agent, hovering near the door that led into the kitchen.

"Yes, Mister Paxter?" she said, smiling as she came rushing down. "Did you have a question?"

"I did indeed." He turned to gesture at the lake. "Do you happen to know, how many properties are on this lake?"

She nodded. "Including this one, seven in total."

"Seven?" Fastmer repeated, brows shooting up. "Is that all?"

"This is the most exclusive residential area in the whole of Isendale, Mister Holcroft. Land here doesn't come cheap. Or easy."

"And they're all private residences? No clubs, or any kind of public facilities?"

She nodded. "All private residences, yes."

"Is there any public access at all?" Fastmer asked. He gestured at the far shore. "Anywhere people can drive or take a bus to, and walk down to the water?"

"None at all, no." Her smile was diplomatic. "When I say this lake is exclusive, I mean it's exclusive. The only way you get onto this water is by living in one of the houses."

Fastmer went to the edge of the lawn to look out over the lake. "I don't suppose you happen to know who's in the other six houses?"

"I don't know the specifics, but I do know they're all _extremely_ wealthy and private people." She looked from one of them to the other. "Not the kind of neighbours who'll give your client _any_ trouble."

Fastmer stepped off the lawn to stroll down to the shore.

"Looking for something?" Algrin said.

"I'm trying to find the other six houses," Fastmer said. "I can only see five." He pointed to them, one by one, dotted around the south end of the lake, peeking out from behind trees or rows of perfectly manicured bushes.

"You won't see the sixth one," Miss Borleth called out. She turned to point to the north. "It's away up at the very end of the lake, behind that peninsula."

"And there's nobody between this house and that one?"

She shook her head again. "That estate you can't see owns the whole north side of the lake. The other six here share the south side between them."

"So, what you're saying is, there's really only a house close to us on the right?" Fastmer said, pointing to the estate in question. "And the house to the left is a few miles away?"

"That's right."

That was a plus point, in Algrin's opinion.

But Fastmer wasn't convinced. "I still don't like it," he said, turning back to the water. "It's still too open."

"We've leased this house to all manner of people, Mister Holcroft," Miss Borleth politely said. "Actors, businessmen, politicians. Nobody's ever had any security or privacy issues. Your client won't wake up to find a tabloid reporter watching them from a boat, I promise."

Algrin smiled at the young woman. "This is a little bit different, I'm afraid. Our client isn't an actor, or a businessman, or a politician." Unfortunately, for security reasons, he couldn't tell her who that client would be until they knew for sure they were going to rent the house. "We need to be absolutely certain we're safe."

"Of course," she said, looking perplexed.

"Who lives on the estate?" Fastmer called out. "The one that owns the north side of the lake?"

"A private family, I don't know their name. All I do know is, they've lived there for a very long time." She flashed a hopeful smile. "I could find out for you, if it's important."

Algrin didn't see a need—he could run a property search at the Palace, find out in twenty minutes himself. "Thank you, Miss Borleth," he said, in a way that made it clear he wanted her to disappear so he and Fastmer could talk in private again.

She was smart enough to get the message. "Of course," she said, with a quick nod. "I'll be up at the house if you need me."

"So?" Algrin said to Fastmer once the young woman was gone. "Do we put it on the list, or don't we?"

Fastmer sighed. "If we could add some screening with a sensor fence here," he said, gesturing along the end of the garden, "then yes, I'll put it on the list." He pointed to a tiny island, sticking out of the water maybe two hundred metres off shore. "I'd want to run a buoy line as well, on our right boundary, from us out to that island, to stop people bringing boats through."

"The other residents might not like that."

"Don't see why not. It's not like we'd be stopping them from using the rest of the lake." He turned away from the shore to walk back up to the lawn. "And I think they might not complain so much once they find out who it's for," he added.

There was that, yes. Wherever the King ended up staying, the neighbours were going to be _thrilled_. "And it's this house that owns the island."

"Exactly."

"You're still not happy, though, are you?"

Fastmer sighed. "It's a great house, but so were the last two. And the one up on the hill had no security gaps at all." He smirked. "If that place ever came under attack, Vonnal and I could hold a whole army off for a week."

Given the military experience the two guards had between them, Algrin didn't doubt it. "It also didn't have a lake. And you know how much the King loves to swim."

"It had a swimming pool," Fastmer pointed out.

"A small one. And I won't speak for His Majesty, but I'm quite sure he'd tell us it's not the same. He'll want the open water instead."

Another long-suffering sigh. "Aye. That he will."

"Let's put it on the list," Algrin said, bringing out his tablet. "We'll explain the pros and cons to him. You never know. He may choose the one on the hill."

Fastmer snorted. "Like he'd ever make it that easy for me." He gestured at the tablet. "It's none of my business, I know, but I'm curious, how much does this place actually cost?"

Algrin swiped through his notes. "This one's the most expensive." Probably because of the lake. "Twelve-five-hundred."

"A _month_?"

"A week."

"Bema," Fastmer muttered. "Must be nice to be that rich."

It must indeed…

Algrin checked his watch. "We're scheduled to leave in fifty minutes. I can call the pilot, ask him to hold for an hour, if there's anything else you want to review?"

"No, I'm done," Fastmer said. "I've seen everything I need to see. Once I know which house we'll be in, I'll start making some proper plans. Might come back for a second visit, bring Vonnal with me to scope the place out."

"So, we're good to go?"

Fastmer waved at the house. "Let's head to the airport, get back to Edoras for dinner. See what His Majesty has to say."


	45. Chapter 45

**Tuesday June 2, 2020**

He found her in the library, perched in one of the high window seats, legs pulled up underneath her, leaning against the padded side wall, a bowl of candied fruits at her side, flicking through an oversized paperback book.

"Something interesting?" Imrahil asked, gesturing at the bulky tome.

Lothiriel held it up to show him the cover. _Rohirric For Beginners_ , the garish black and yellow title bar read.

"Rohirric?" Imrahil said. "Why in Eru's name are you learning that?"

"Because I want my next meeting with King Eomer to start on the best possible footing." She gave him a bashful smile. "I know he speaks fluent Sindarin, and we both speak Common of course, but I just thought, if I could speak some Rohirric to him, even just a few phrases, it might make a good impression."

As thoughtful as always. But how to break the awkward news to her?

Imrahil sauntered over to perch on a reading table next to the seat. "It certainly would," he said. "If King Eomer spoke the language himself."

"What?"

"Sweetling, Eomer doesn't speak Rohirric." Imrahil gestured at the book. "If you've read that far"—she looked to be a few chapters in—"you probably know more of the language than he does."

She scrunched her face in outrage. "Papa, how can the King of Rohan not speak Rohirric?"

Imrahil sighed. "You can lay that one at King Thengel's feet." And on several other people, but Thengel was the original source of the problem.

"He was Eomer's grandfather, wasn't he? The one who lived in Gondor when he was younger?"

"That's him, yes. He didn't return to Rohan until he was in his forties. By that time, he'd been living in Gondor so long, he'd forgotten how to speak Rohirric. And his wife was Gondorian—"

"—Queen Morwen," Lothiriel put in.

He nodded. "Queen Morwen, yes. She spoke Common and Sindarin, but never learned a word of Rohirric. So, their children never learned it, either. And because they didn't speak it, there was never any motivation to teach it to their own children in turn."

"That's rather sad. To just abandon your native language."

"The worst of it is, Thengel didn't just abandon it. When he came home to assume the Crown, he passed a law that made Common the official government language."

"Instead of Rohirric, I assume?"

"Not instead of, no. There had never been one before, you see, everyone just used whichever language worked best for the occasion. Thengel was trying to make the government more efficient by giving it a national standard, but in doing so, he reduced Rohirric to second-class status. By the end of his reign, Common was the language of the establishment and the urban class, and Rohirric was viewed as the language of unsophisticated, country people."

"Is it still like that now?"

Imrahil shook his head. "King Theoden gave Rohirric the same official status as Common a few years before the end of his reign. It's being taught in schools again, but there's still prejudice in some circles, so it'll take time for it to fully come back. A generation or two, I think."

"Does Eomer really not speak it at _all_?"

"He might be able to use a few basic phrases, but as far as I know, he doesn't, no."

"Well," she said as she slammed the book shut. "Not much point in going any further with this, then, is there?"

"I wouldn't say that. Even if he doesn't understand what you're saying, he'll still realize you're speaking Rohirric. He'll appreciate the gesture, I think."

"I don't want it to just be a gesture, papa," she said softly. "When I talk to him, when I apologize, I want him to understand I _really_ mean it."

He patted her knee. "He will, sweetling. Don't you worry."

She unwound her legs and swung them around to dangle them over the edge of the seat. "Assuming I actually get the chance," she muttered.

And now, he had some good news for her. "Yes, about that."

Her head whipped up. "Has something happened?"

"It certainly has."

"What?"

"We wrote to Eomer's people two weeks ago, to give them our final guest for the anniversary banquet."

"Was my name on the list?"

"It was indeed."

"And what did they say?"

Smiling, he took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and held it up to show it to her. Specifically, the coat of arms at the top bearing the King of Rohan's crowned horse sigil. "The Lord Chamberlain just responded to let us know they have no concerns about any of our arrangements."

She swallowed. "They know I'm coming them."

"They most certainly do."

"Do they know what I'm coming to do?"

Imrahil nodded. "When we sent in the guest list, I added a separate letter." He folded up the piece of paper and put it away. "Addressed to Eomer, explaining the reason for your inclusion."

She took a deep breath. "Then, it's going to happen. Eomer knows I'm coming to the banquet, and that I want to apologize to him."

"He does, yes." Or, at least, Imrahil assumed he did. He didn't imagine for a moment a handwritten letter from the Prince of Dol Amroth _wouldn't_ have been passed to the King. It would have gone through the Lord Chamberlain's office first, and then perhaps to a secretary of some sorts, just as the reply to him had come first to his own, but Eomer himself must surely have seen it.

"Papa?"

"Yes, sweetling?"

"What on earth do I do now?"

"I would think your first task now is to decide what you're going to wear."

She swatted him on the arm. "Papa, be serious, please."

"You don't think what outfit you wear could influence how Eomer reacts to your presence?"

"Only if I turn up naked." She shrugged. "A pretty dress is a pretty dress."

If only her expensive clothes-loving mother could think the same way. "Then, what about what you're going to say?"

"To Eomer?"

"To Eomer, yes."

"You think I should prepare a speech of some kind?"

He shook his head. "You shouldn't sound over-prepared. But he's a busy man, and he'll have three hundred guests to meet and greet, so he may not be able to give you a great deal of time." Imrahil didn't say—he might not be _willing_ to give her a great deal of time. "Whatever you're going to say to him, you should be ready to say it succinctly. And he's Rohanese, so an elaborate explanation would probably do more harm than good. He'll appreciate simplicity, I think. Speak from the heart, and don't take ten minutes to say something that can just as easily be said in two."

"Say what I mean, and mean what I say," she said.

"Precisely."

She pushed to jump off the seat. "I should start on this, I think."

"The banquet's over two months away, sweetling. There's no huge rush." But that was Lothiriel to a 't'—when she committed herself to something, she threw herself into it, one-hundred-and-fifty percent. If only all of her brothers had that same dedication. Especially Amrothos. Imrahil loved his youngest son, but Eru, the lad was a lazy shit…

"I know there isn't." She smiled. "But you know how I am, papa. Whatever I do, I like to be ready."

He leaned forward to kiss her on the head. "You do indeed."

Fastmer stuck his head in Algrin's office. "Nedris mentioned you were looking for me?"

"I was, yes." Algrin beckoned him in. "Thought you should know, I checked the records for all the houses we went to see."

And by 'records' Algrin meant everything from the original builder's credit rating to how many bags of trash the current owner put out every week. "Anything interesting come up?"

Algrin nodded. "I'm taking one house off the list." His smile was almost apologetic. "Your favourite. The one on the hill."

"Something wrong with it?"

"Does being the location of a drug-fuelled double murder count as wrong?"

It most certainly did. Not that the King was superstitious (and tough shit if anyone else in the entourage was), but it was the kind of thing the tabloid press would grab onto. Better to go somewhere clean with no ghastly history behind it. "I'd say so, yes. Just surprised the leasing company didn't tell us. They must have known it would put the place out of contention."

"I called them. Was planning to give them a piece of my mind for trying to hide it from us, turns out they didn't actually know. Think they were even more shocked than I was."

"So, one house is off the list. Anything from the other six?"

Algrin smirked. "The one on the lake you were nervous about, you remember how the leasing agent told us, one other estate owned the whole north end?"

"Uh huh?"

"Look who the estate owner is." Algrin said pushing a folder across the desk.

Fastmer pulled the folder towards him, spinning it with his hand to turn it the right way up. He scanned until he found the Owner Information section. "You're kidding me."

"Would I joke about something like that?"

"This is good, though, isn't it? We know they won't give us any trouble." Quite the opposite, Fastmer would think.

Algrin snorted. "They won't give the _King_ any trouble, but he shouldn't take any peacocks with him."

"Sorry?"

"Forgive me," Algrin said, smiling, waving him off. "Ancient history. Was just being facetious."

It was moments like this that made Fastmer realize why he needed a drink at the end of every shift. "So, it's still on the list then? The lake house?"

"It certainly is." Algrin took the folder back to close it over. "I'd like to review the list with the King tomorrow, but given how jammed his schedule is this week, it might be Friday before I get the chance."

It shouldn't just be Algrin who reviewed the list with him—the King should understand the security issues from his bodyguards' perspective as well. "Come grab me when the chance comes. We can take him through the pros and cons of each place together."

Aragorn turned the corner to see Lord Denethor striding towards him.

The Lord Steward's eyes were down, focused on a sheet of paper he was holding in his right hand. Just as Aragorn was about to reverse and step out of view, Denethor brought his eyes up, alerted by that preternatural sixth sense of his to the immediacy of his sovereign's presence.

"Your Majesty," the Lord Steward said, smiling, giving the most solemn of bows. "I was just on my way to see you."

They hadn't been due to meet; Denethor must have bad news for him. "Has something urgent come up?"

"Not urgent, Your Majesty, no. But something relating to a matter you asked after last week. I sensed the matter was troubling you, I thought you would want to be aware of the update."

"What matter was that?"

"Prince Imrahil's secretary just called me, sir, to discuss a few matters for his trip into town next week. He happened to mention that King Eomer's Court has confirmed their arrangements for the anniversary banquet."

"Including the guest list?"

"Including the guest list, sir, yes."

This definitely counted as interesting. If Eomer's people had confirmed the arrangements, it meant Eomer himself must know what those arrangements were. Which meant he must know Lothiriel would be one of the guests.

"And there were no complaints of any kind? About the guest list, I mean?"

The Lord Steward frowned. "Not that I'm aware of, sir, no."

"And King Eomer hasn't tried to call me?"

"No, Your Majesty, he has not."

Could it really be this simple? Had Eomer accepted the news of Lothiriel's attendance with composure and grace? Knowing the younger King as well as he did, and how hot-headed Eomer tended to be, Aragorn thought that extremely unlikely.

"Thank you, my Lord," Aragorn said, nodding curtly to let his Lord Steward know he was free to take his leave. Denethor hesitated, as if he was about to say something else, then nodded back and turned to stride away.

He would call Eomer himself. Talk to him, man to man. Get right to the heart of the matter.

As soon as he could find the time in his schedule for it.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be a few days before the next chapter - I don't have anything written for it, plus I feel like I need a day off to recharge.

**Thursday June 4, 2020**

He looked like a moving cutlery drawer.

Every time Eomer so much as twitched, something blinged, and something else jangled.

It was nothing short of ridiculous, how many shiny things he was wearing. Gold trim on his stand-up collar, gold boards with buttons on both shoulders, a gold belt with a gold buckle, a double row of gold buttons down the front of his formal tunic, gold bands around his sleeves, a gold strip down the sides of his trousers. And then, all of the medals and orders, most on ribbons, some on glittering chains. The Order of the Golden Mane. The Order of Merit. The Order of the Simbelmyne. The Order of the White Tree. The National Medal of Honour. The King Aragorn Coronation Medal. The King Bard Memorial Medal.

It was just as well he was allowed to spend most of the ceremony sitting down. With all of this on, there was no way he would be able to stay on his feet for more than ten minutes before the sheer weight of all that metal made his knees buckle.

But it wasn't all bad. At least now, since his reforms, he didn't have to wear the State Robe, otherwise known as the world's longest, fanciest tripping hazard. Or the actual crown, which the Lord Chamberlain now carried into the Hall at the head of the formal procession on a green and gold cushion instead. Some people hadn't approved of that change, but some people didn't have to wear the damn thing, and deal with the splitting headaches it gave them, or live in fear of it falling off and rolling away every time they so much as sniffed.

A light rap on the door announced his sister's arrival. He couldn't help but smile as she entered—he felt ridiculous in his jangles and bangles, but her white and gold brocade gown with a scooped neck and elbow length sleeves, paired with a set of pristine, elbow length white gloves made her a vision of regal glamour. Her hair was down, but tied back from her face. She was wearing a single order—The Golden Mane—but only the riband and badge—smaller and more subtle than the star or the chain. But, as always, the most interesting part of her outfit was her jewels. A gold and emerald diadem, an antique gold choker with a twisted flower motif he couldn't remember seeing before, emerald drop earrings the size of small eggs and torc-style bracelets on both wrists.

"You look amazing," he said. He gestured at the choker. "Is that new? I don't think I've seen it before."

Nodding, she touched her fingers to the band. "It’s not one of ours. It's on loan from Hammard's."

"You're bored with all of our stuff already?" Not a difficult task, since the House of Eorl's jewellery collection was actually quite modest compared to what some other royal families owned. Queen Arwen could probably wear a different tiara or diadem every day and not see the same one twice in a year.

She shrugged. "I just wanted something different today."

He held his arms wide. "Go on, then. How do I look?"

"Very regal," she said, coming to straighten up his row of medals.

"I feel like a walking cutlery set."

"An extremely expensive cutlery set." She tapped one of the star-shaped badges on his left breast. "Do you have any idea how much these are worth? Just the actual material value?"

"No idea." And to be honest, he didn't much care. They were priceless for historical and cultural reasons, so it wasn't as if he could ever sell them.

She stood back, frowning. "But you've got them on wrong."

"Sorry?"

"The Order of the Simbelmyne should be at the top," she said, pointing between two badges on his left breast. "The Order of Merit should be underneath."

He shook his head; he knew she was wrong. "Uncle Ted gave me the Order of Merit first."

"Except, this is a formal State occasion." She reached out to tap the Simbelmyne badge. "Which means you rank them by the date of the Order's creation, not the date on which you joined them. Simbelmyne's older. It should come first."

"Fuck," he muttered. How could he have forgotten that? But he didn't have time to change them round now—he would have to take the whole jacket off, and they were due to leave in a couple of minutes. "I'm not changing now. It'll just have to do."

"Eomer, you can't go to the State Opening of Parliament with your Order badges the wrong way round," she said, as if he'd just proposed the Custodian should kick off his speech by strangling a stray puppy to death.

"Nobody will notice." Or care, he was sure.

" _I'll_ notice."

"Okay, apart from you."

She threw up her hands. "Fine. Open Parliament with your uniform on wrong, then. See if I care. But if the College of Arms sends you an anguished letter next week, pointing out how much you messed up and begging you not to do it again, don't come crying to me."

As if he would ever do that…

"I assume that's the crown?" she asked, gesturing at the reinforced box on the bureau behind him.

"Yes," he said, wearily, knowing what she was going to ask next.

Her eyes took on a mischievous gleam. "Can I hold it?"

"No."

The gleam turned to a frown. "Why not?"

"Because you never stop at just wanting to hold it. You always want to try it on as well."

She rolled her eyes. "It's just a crown, Eomer. Not really anything more than a fancy hat."

An elaborate, priceless, solid gold hat containing the second-largest diamond to ever come out of Moria's mines. "It's also the physical symbol of the monarchy's power. And nobody but the reigning monarch is ever supposed to put it on."

She went to the box to lay her hands on the lid. "Can I just look at it, then?" she wheedled.

"You can look at it in the Robing Chamber when the Lord Chamberlain takes it out of the box and puts it on the carrying cushion." He just hoped the Lord Chamberlain had the cushion—he had no idea where the damn thing was.

"You're such a spoilsport," she said.

"I'm not a spoilsport. I'm the _King_." He tapped the lid of the box. "If I let you put this on, in theory, it could be taken as a sign that I've abdicated and handed my royal authority to you. So, unless you want to overthrow me and accidentally make yourself Queen, shut up and stop complaining."

"You need your sword," she said.

"What?"

She pointed at his left side. "You're in full day dress uniform. You're supposed to wear a cavalry sabre, remember?"

Bema. Bad enough he'd put his Orders in the wrong order, now he was forgetting his sabre as well? How the fuck had he ever missed that? He took a breath to call for Colwenna, but she was already off doing something else for him, and he knew which cupboard the sabre was in—it would be quicker if he just fetched it himself.

"Are you _sure_ you were at the War College?" Eowyn called out after him as he turned away.

He strode through to his wardrobe room, jingle-jangling with every step, and went to the bureau right at the end—the one in which he kept all the ceremonial fuss and feathers. He pulled out the third drawer down, and there was the sabre, gleaming and perfect (and razor sharp), lying in its sculpted, velvet-lined tray. Carefully he picked it out, turned it the right way up and clipped the supporting straps to his belt, one after the other.

He pushed the drawer closed, and strode back through to his office.

To find the lid of the strongbox open, and Eowyn holding the Crown of Rohan ten centimetres above her head.

He froze.

She froze as well, eyes wide, her expression screaming panic and shame. She looked less like a Princess of the Blood, and more like a five-year-old girl caught with her hand in a jar of cookies and chocolate smeared all over her face.

"What on _earth_ do you think you're doing?" an all-too-familiar voice demanded.

Their heads whipped to the door, and there was Colwenna, holding the pair of size ten white cotton gloves Eomer had sent her to find, staring at Eowyn, her expression a mixture of sheer outrage and unrestrained horror. "Young lady, put that down, _right_ this instant," she ordered.

Eowyn lowered the crown, almost dropping it back into its padded, velvet-lined box. "I just wanted to look at it," she meekly said.

"Oh, so that's what you were doing? _Looking_ at it? While you were holding it with both hands? Ten centimetres above your head?" Still scowling, Colwenna went to slam the box shut. "Strangest way of _looking_ at something I've ever seen in my life." She turned her anger on him. "And you should know better," she said, thrusting the pair of gloves at him. "It's the Crown of Rohan, not some shiny toy you can share with your friends. The Lord Chamberlain would have a _seizure_ if he knew you'd even let someone touch it."

"Don't blame me. I told her not to," Eomer said.

Colwenna turned her anger on Eowyn again. "Did he tell you not to touch it?"

Eowyn sighed. "Yes."

"But you touched it anyway."

Head hanging, Eowyn nodded. 

"The pair of you are as bloody bad as each other," Colwenna said scowling at each of them in turn. "I don't know whose arse I want to kick first."

"She's the one who did something wrong," Eomer said, pointing at his sister. He smirked. "And you can't kick mine. I'm the King."

Colwenna snorted. "You think that would bloody well stop me?"

With exquisitely perfect timing, someone knocked solemnly on the door.

"Come in," Eomer called out.

The door swung open to reveal the Lord Chamberlain and the Senior Comptroller in all their pompous, decorous glory. Eomer wasn't sure whose outfit was the most silly. He might sound like a cutlery drawer when he walked, but at least he didn't have to wear a stiff, embroidered, green and gold tunic, complete with tails, collars and frilly cuffs. But it could be even worse. Until his own reign, the formal outfit had also included silk stockings and formal breeches. Thanks to his many reforms, their Lordships could now wear comfortable dress trousers instead.

Both men gave a deep, formal bow, fitting to the gravity of the occasion. "Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, the state coach is ready for you," the Lord Chamberlain declared.

"Thank you, Fenling." Eomer turned to wave at the crown. "I assume you know where the carrying cushion is?"

"It's downstairs, Your Majesty," the Lord Chamberlain said. "I'll have it with me in my coach with the crown. Everything will be waiting for you in the Robing Chamber when you arrive."

Eomer's next question was to the Senior Comptroller. "And the Lord Chancellor has the speech?"

Harstan nodded. "The Prime Minister's office has provided him with the final version, sir, yes. He'll present it to you at the appropriate time."

"So, we're all ready to go?" Eomer asked as he pulled on his gloves. "Anyone need a pre-emptive painkiller? Or a last-minute trip to the head?"

Nobody said a word.

"Great. Let's get this Parliament opened, then."

From his vantage point on the dais, Eomer studied the scene before him.

No matter how long he eventually reigned, or how many times he eventually came to the Hall, he wasn't sure he would ever get used to the feeling of sitting up on a golden throne while several hundred people—a mixture of Landed and Common—watched him as if he was an insect pinned to a specimen slide.

It wasn't as if they couldn't watch him. He _was_ the King, and thanks to the seating arrangements, there was literally nowhere else they could look. But it was this kind of thing that made him sympathize with his Aunt Eorwena. Doing this more than once a year would make him claustrophobic and anxious as well.

On padded seats in front of the dais sat the 122 members of the Hall of Lords, arranged strictly by precedence, with the oldest titles at the front and the newest at the back. The members of the House of Commons—the only people in the whole building who'd actually earned the right to attend—were crammed onto plain wooden benches at the rear of the Hall and down both sides, ordered by importance again, with the members of the Cabinet on the slightly more spacious benches to the immediate right and left of the throne. The Commons were all in business dress, but the Lords were in their formal green robes. The robes looked uncomfortable, but at least they weren't as silly as the Lord Chamberlain's frills and tunic tails.

Various other people were standing on the steps of the dais, in the aisles and along the walls—doorkeepers, marshals, footmen, chamberlains, ushers, pages, yeomen, ladies-in-waiting, sergeants-at-arms. He spotted the members of his own guard—wearing their most formal tunics today—waiting at the door of the Robing Chamber. This was the one building in the whole country his guards legally couldn't set foot in; while he was here, his and Eowyn's safety fell to the Hall Commandant instead. That was the theory, at least. Eomer was fairly sure that if someone actually tried to attack him, Fastmer would launch himself down the aisle, and throw both the assassin and the rules to the wind.

In the spectator's balcony above sat the Lords' spouses—mostly women, clad in their formal gold and green dresses finished off with tiaras and jewels, but a handful of smartly-dressed men as well—the husbands of the few female peers. Beside and behind the spouses sat various other observers, including the usual raft of reporters, who were no doubt scribbling notes on everything from the way Eowyn had styled her hair to how well he'd polished his shoes. Would one of them notice his out of order Orders, he wondered? Perhaps the man from The Edoras Times.

It was all rather splendid—the best pomp and pageantry the Kingdom of Rohan had to offer. And painfully, arse-numbingly dull. Not to mention cloyingly, unpleasantly warm. He'd only been here for thirty minutes, but his undershirt was sticking to him, and sweat was trickling down his back. He had no idea how Eowyn kept her composure as well as she did—her heavy dress must be just as unpleasant. The next time he had to do this in June, he was going to leave the state coach at home, turn up in a convoy of bikes wearing shades, a t-shirt and knee-length shorts, order everyone involved to do whatever they needed to do to wrap it all up in twenty-five minutes. Either that, or refuse to attend unless they had some AC installed.

Unfortunately, the torture wouldn't end anytime soon. They were thirty minutes in already, had at least another fifty to go. Assuming the Custodian could ever bother himself to finish his introductory speech, of course. Bema bless the man, but he talked as if the spoken word was going out of style.

As subtly as he could, he scanned the benches and seats, looking for familiar faces. He knew everyone in the front row of seats—the highest-ranking of the Earls—Darkfald, Elgoll, Romengar, Keveleok, Hereoch, Camelor, Vosburg, Larsbrook and Strone—all the usual suspects were here. He twitched the smallest of smiles at the Earl of Elgoll—Elfhelm's father, and a man Eomer considered an adoptive uncle of sorts—the Earl winked and twitched the smallest of smiles right back. Keveleok briefly caught his eye, but instead of a smile, she twitched a sour smirk, as if she knew something he didn't. He kept moving, passing over the Earl of Camelor as fast as he could. His eyes flicked up to the balcony, but he couldn't see any sign of Seorsa. She was still legally Rogen's wife, so technically, still entitled to take her seat with the spouses, but it would be a ballsy move, even for her.

The Earl of Hamelmark was at the most senior end of the second row, directly behind the Countess of Darkfald.

The Earl of Hamelmark. Solwen's father.

Solwen. His 'date'. The woman he wanted to have lunch with again.

Gods fucking _shitting_ dammit.

It took every ounce of control he had not to thump his fist on the arm of his seat. It was almost the end of the fucking week, and what with one thing and another, he _still_ hadn't remembered to ask Colwenna to look for a gap in his schedule for him. He needed to fix that ASAP.

"You need to get your goddamn shit together," he muttered under his breath.

Beside him, Eowyn frowned. "Sorry?"

Her and her dog-level hearing. "Nothing. Just realized I forgot to do something," he whispered.

"Something important?" she whispered back.

He tried not to move his lips as he spoke—one of the tabloids had a lipreader on staff. "The second date. With the woman I had lunch with. I still haven't set it up."

"Eomer?" Eowyn said, quietly but calmly.

"What?"

"You're in the process of opening Parliament, about to give your Speech from the Throne, and you're thinking about your _love life_?"

Hmm, yes, when she put it like that. "Sorry. Got a bit distracted."

"Focus, please."

Focus. That was a good idea. But what the hell to focus on?

He started to count the number of female MPs.

He'd just hit twenty-two when a clanging sound made him jump slightly—the Custodian striking his Rod of State on the floor, signalling to all assembled that his formal introduction was done and the Speech from the Throne was about to begin.

Everyone in the Hall rose.

Time for Eomer to do his piece. As he rose from his throne, the Lord Chancellor came up the side steps to the dais, pausing to give a deep, formal bow before holding out an antique goatskin leather folder—a folder Eomer knew contained the text of his speech. He'd skimmed through an email version in bed last night, so he knew more or less what to expect.

At the front of the dais, a lectern was waiting—sitting just behind the low table on which sat the cushioned crown. He placed the folder on the lectern, opened it, scanned the first line, and raised his head to address the crowd. "Honourable Lords of the Hall, Esteemed Members of the House, be seated, please."

Duncan grinned as Jonrick Amerwen sauntered across the lobby towards him. "So," he said to his fellow earl and best friend. "What did you make of all that?"

Jonrick shrugged. "Wasn't too bad. The King announced more or less what Harbrand told you he was going to announce. We just need to wait and see how well she delivers from here."

"Even she's not two-faced enough to go back on a promise as hefty as that," Duncan said.

"She's a politician, Dunc. Never say never." Jonrick shucked out of his robe, flicked it out, folded it up and draped it over his arm. "You know as well as I do there's going to be accusations of favouritism—"

"—Unwarranted accusations," Duncan put in.

Jonrick nodded. "Completely, yes. But if it gets nasty, and she starts to lose support in other regions, she'll backpedal on this faster than your dad can put away a full pint of Black."

And his dad could put away a full pint of black in less than ten seconds. "She'd make a liar of herself. _And_ of the King," Duncan pointed out. "Don't think His Majesty would appreciate her changing her mind after the speech he just gave."

"Not like he can do anything if she does, though, is it? He's just the King. He doesn't have any real power. He can't force her to do something she's decided she doesn't want to do." Jonrick frowned as something over Duncan's shoulder caught his attention. "Incoming," he muttered.

That warning—someone was coming to have a word with him. "Bad?" Duncan muttered back.

Grim-faced, Jonrick nodded.

Steeling himself, Duncan turned, to find himself face-to-face with the ruddy, scowling visage of Rogen Camelor, of all people—his least favourite arsehole in the whole world. "Lord Camelor," he said, nodding slightly, forcing his facial expression into what some people might consider a smile.

Camelor gave a curt nod back. "Lord Hamelmark."

"Was there something I could help you with?" With anyone else, Duncan would be happy to waste a few minutes on chit chat and the usual greetings, but not with this man. When you spoke to Rogen Camelor—to _any_ of the Camelor men—it was best to skip the niceties and just get straight to the fucking point.

"There is, yes. I'm going to take a wild guess from listening to the details of the King's speech that you'll be helping Harbrand with her new scheme." He wrinkled his nose as he said the last word, making it sound like a criminal enterprise of some sorts—a plan to swindle pensioners out of their money.

Two-faced, sanctimonious prick—Duncan wasn't the one with the swindling brother. "I'm not sure I appreciate your tone," he said.

"So, you're going to deny you're helping her, then?" Camelor said. "With this initiative in the March she's planning?"

"With all due respect, Lord Camelor"—respect he didn't feel or possess—"you're not a member of the Prime Minister's party, and you're certainly not a member of mine, so you'll forgive me if I stick to telling you that's none of your business." Harbrand was planning to make some announcements on the matter tomorrow—Camelor could find out what was happening then.

A smile spread on Camelor's face—sneering, arrogant, disdainful. "Yes, that's more or less what I expected you to say." Sighing, he smoothed down his robe. "And tell me, my Lord, how's your lovely daughter these days?" His tone was light, but his smile turned cunning. "I hear she's living in Edoras again. It must be nice to finally have her home."

"It is, yes, and she's very well, thank you for asking," Duncan said, resisting the urge to grab the arrogant prick by the throat and strangle him until he passed out. He couldn't do anything provocative here, not at such a formal event, in front of so many Hall officials. If he got himself suspended again, Nediriel would make him sleep in the garden.

But he couldn't let Camelor get away clean. "And while we're on the subject of family, my Lord, tell me, how's your lovely wife?" he said, showing an innocent smile.

Camelor's face turned to stone. "Don't get too ambitious, Hamelmark. It doesn't suit you. It won't end well." He nodded again and turned on his heel to stride away.

"Bema. What a piece of work," Jonrick muttered.

Duncan slipped out of his own robe. "Wasn't the phrase I was thinking"—his involved much cruder words—"but yes, let's go with that."

"You shouldn't provoke him."

"And he shouldn't threaten my daughter," Duncan said. He swore there and then, if Camelor touched so much as a single hair on his wee girl's head, he would end the prick so utterly and completely, the police would be finding pieces of the man's body for months. "He wants to stay on my good side, he and his arsehole of a brother should just pretend Solly doesn't exist."

Jonrick sighed. "There is that, aye."

"And if he doesn't like me making remarks about his wife, he shouldn’t have driven her away in the first place." How the woman had put up with Rogen as long as she had, he honestly had no idea.

"Did you hear the latest rumours, by the way?" Jonrick said, his voice dropping to a murmur again. "About who she's been diddling on the sly?"

"Who, Seorsa?"

"Aye."

Duncan grinned, letting the tension of the Camelor moment fade away. "I certainly did."

"What did you think?"

"Put it this way. However else I might disapprove of him, I can't say anything bad about His Majesty's taste."

Jonrick snorted. "He certainly knows how to pick the ladies, doesn't he?"

Chatter and laughter floated towards them, announcing the approach of their wives.

Duncan went to give Nediriel a kiss on the cheek, taking care not to disturb her hair or tiara, lest he invoke her wifely displeasure. "You survived, then?" She enjoyed the pomp and pageantry, and the chance to bring out the family jewels, but not the discomfort that came with it.

"Just about. The seats in the balcony aren't the most comfortable in the world." She made a fanning motion. "And I always forget how warm the Hall gets. Was like an oven up there by the time we were done. Glad it didn't run any longer."

"I'm quite sure the King felt the same way," Yennara Amerwen said, taking her husband's robe to flick it out and fold it again. "I was watching him while the Custodian was giving his speech. He looked as if he was going through the five stages of grief."

"Maybe it was because he'd realized he had his Orders on the wrong way," Jonrick added.

Duncan frowned. "Sorry?"

"His orders," said Jonrick, patting his left breast. "He had the Merit on top and the Simbelmyne underneath. Should have been the other way round." He wrinkled his nose. "And he should _maybe_ have put the Golden Mane on a ribbon instead of a chain, but that's just my amateur opinion."

"Jon, I swear, sometimes, the utterly _useless_ shit you know," Duncan said, shaking his head in exasperation.

"It's not useless shit. It's _historic_ shit. There's a difference."

Duncan looked to Yennara. "Your husband needs some better hobbies," he said.

"Yes, because drinking and shouting at the television are such useful ways to pass the time," said Nediriel tartly.

"I usually only do them together," said Duncan, defending. The drinking made him shout at the television. Or, the shouting at the television made him need to drink to calm down—he wasn't quite sure. "I never do them on their own."

Yennara's laughter pealed out. "And speaking of drinking, where are we going for lunch?"

"We could give Garadon's a try?" Nediriel suggested. She brought her phone out of a hidden pocket—one of the many useful additions she'd made to the dress. "I could call them right now, book us a table? "

"Works for me," Duncan said. Garadon's made a chicken dish he loved, and the young woman who ran the place was rather easy on the eye. Not that he would ever share that explanation with his wife, of course. He gestured to a door at the end of the lobby. "Why don't you deal with that, Jon and I will go hand in our robes?"


	47. Chapter 47

**Friday June 5, 2020**

Eomer sank into his seat, waving for Fenbrand to do the same. "So, what did everyone make of my Speech?" And by everyone, he meant the press and papers, of course.

Fenbrand smiled that perfectly courteous smile of his. "It seems to have been extremely well received, sir. The presentation of it, at least. No complaints about your performance."

His performance. Yes, that was a good word to use. What would Gwenna Freebourn make of his oratory, he wondered?

"But there have been comments on one matter, sir," Fenbrand added with a slight frown.

"What was that?" Had he gotten some facts mixed up, or mangled the pronunciation of somebody's name?

"One of the more eagle-eyed reporters noticed you were apparently wearing two of your Orders the wrong way around."

"Was I really?" Eomer said. "Silly me. I had no idea."

The courteous smile came out again. "Not to worry, sir. Hardly a life-threatening issue."

Except by Eowyn's measure. "Indeed."

"As to how well the _content_ of the Speech went over, I'm afraid that's a bit more of a mixed bag."

"Let me guess. Rapturous applause in the March, silence or tantrums from everywhere else."

"That would be a simple summary, sir, yes. I think some of the regions feel the boost to the March will inevitably come at their expense."

Eomer leaned back in his chair. "Those regions need to realize, they can't have the whole bag of oats to themselves. Every citizen of Rohan is entitled to the same support and opportunities, regardless of where they live." Fenbrand brows started to pucker; Eomer raised his hands in a gesture of reassurance. "But that's strictly between the two of us, of course. I know it's wandering close to taking a political stance. I promise I won't ever say it to anyone else."

"Thank you, sir."

"Did Harbrand make her announcement yet? For how she's going to implement her plan?"

"She did, sir, yes. In a press conference she held at nine o'clock. Not a lot of information so far, but one thing we _do_ know is, she's apparently asked the Earl of Hamelmark to help."

"Hmm, yes, I heard that might be on the cards," Eomer said without thinking.

"Really?" said Fenbrand, frowning. "May I ask, from whom, sir?"

Eomer nodded. "From his d—"

He remembered then, Eorwena's warning, about what information to share with whom. He trusted Fenbrand, almost as much as he trusted Colwenna or Fastmer, but this was strictly personal information, so probably better kept to himself. Fenbrand and his team didn't need to know who he was dating. Or would be dating, if he could ever get that goddamn fucking second date arranged. "From someone I spoke to yesterday at the Hall. A Cabinet member, I think. I can't remember who."

Fenbrand seemed to buy that for now. "A tidy solution, I think. Certainly the least problematic."

"Harbrand would never be stupid enough to give the job the Earl's going to do to someone _not_ from the March, and there's no way in hell anyone from the other three parties will ever agree to work with her. The Earl is from the region, very well thought of by all accounts, and even though he's technically an independent, he's mostly aligned himself with Harbrand's platform in recent years. He's the best candidate she could pick, out of the few available to her."

"Exactly, sir, yes."

A light knock came at the door. "That'll be Fastmer and Algrin," Eomer said.

"Are we running late again, sir?" Fenbrand asked, jerking bolt upright, checking his watch. "I _do_ apologize if we are."

Eomer shook his head. "Not running late. I just asked them to join our meeting for ten minutes. Come in!" he called out.

The door swung open to admit the head of his security team and the head of his personal guard. "Good morning, sir," said Algrin, with the usual, respectful nod. "You sent a message last night asking us to come at nine-thirty?"

"I certainly did. Come in, have a seat, please," Eomer said, waving to the other chairs. He smiled at Fenbrand, trying to smooth his Secretary's ruffled feathers back into place. Fenbrand didn't dislike the other two men, but Eomer was sure he viewed these meetings as belonging strictly and only to him. "They want to discuss my plans for the Midsummer break. Finalize which house I'm going to stay in. I'll need your help with that, thought it would be more efficient if the four of us could review it together, get it wrapped up and done."

"Of course, sir, yes," Fenbrand murmured.

"So, what did you find out on your trip?" Eomer said to Algrin and Fastmer once they were both safely seated.

Fastmer gestured to Algrin, for once, deferring to the other man. "Six houses, sir," Algrin said, laying six information sheets on his desk. "All in high-end suburbs of Isendale, all more or less the same size, all extremely well-equipped."

"Just so you know, I'd like to have three full guest rooms," Eomer said. "And I'm planning to take three of my bikes." Brendal had told him about some good country trails—it would be nice to take the off-roader out for a change.

"That takes this one out of the running," Fastmer said, pulling one of the sheets away. "The garage space was already tight. We'd be pushed to fit three of your bikes as well as all the usual vehicles."

Eomer scanned the other five pieces of paper. The houses all looked amazing. One stood out, but for the wrong reason. "This one doesn't have a pool," he said, tapping on the photo.

"No, sir, it doesn't," Fenbrand said.

Eomer crumpled the piece of paper and threw it into the trash. "No good. I'm going to be on vacation, but I'll still want to swim every day."

Algrin cleared his throat. "If it's swimming you're after, sir…"

"Yes?"

"The last one might be the best match for you."

Eomer pulled the last sheet towards him. A beautiful house, from what he could see, in an even more beautiful setting. "On a lake?"

"Yes, sir."

It had been _years_ since he'd swum in a lake. And not for any lack of interest—he loved swimming in open water. _Inland_ open water, that was; he wasn't so fond of oceans and seas. He didn't like sand, or salt, or tides, or anything with sharks or squid or jellyfish in it. But a calm, quiet freshwater lake bounded by forests and open blue sky? That would suit him very nicely.

As long as he didn't have to share it with the neighbourhood rowing club, that was. "How private is it?" Eomer said.

"Completely, sir," Algrin said. "Six other houses around the lake, all of them are privately owned, no public access to the water at all." He brought another sheet out, showing a map of the lake and the houses. "This one right here," he said, tapping one of the plots, "this is the rental location. You can see the other houses are very spread out. And they're all well screened, behind lots of bushes and trees. You won't have any privacy issues."

He looked to his head guard, knowing Fastmer would have assessed at the house from a slightly different perspective. "Any concerns?"

Fastmer let out one of his wonderful sighs. "I'm not entirely happy with the back garden, sir, it's a little more open at the lake end than I would like. But I think we can add some extra screening, set up a portable sensor fence."

"Enough that you and your team will be able to sleep?"

"Yes, sir. But not all of us at the same time," he quickly added. "I'll put a watch on through the night."

Eomer didn't envy whoever drew the short straw on that. But such was the life of a royal guard—it wasn't always a nine-to-five job. "Let's do it," he said, making a snap decision. He looked to Fenbrand. "Can you follow up on the lake house for me? Take it for the whole of July, if we can?"

Fenbrand opened his folder to scribble a note. "Of course, sir. I'll call my contact at the agency this morning."

"Do they know His Majesty is the client?" Algrin asked.

"I thought it best to leave that part out," Fenbrand said. "But they know where I work, so I'm sure they've guessed."

"Let's continue to leave it out for now. No need to start the local gossip mill running just yet. As soon as word gets out, the tabloids are going to descend on the area in droves. I'd like to have the house locked down as much as possible before that happens."

Fenbrand nodded. "Of course."

Eomer shuffled the pieces of paper together. "I'll leave it up to you and your various teams to figure it out from here. I'd like to be there for the night of the third. Whatever needs to be done to make that happen, please go and do it."

"Will you advise Colwenna, sir?" Fenbrand asked. "Or would you prefer for me to inform her?"

"I'll talk to her, thank you, Fenbrand." He still needed to arrange that damn date—he couldn't believe he'd forgotten _again_ until this morning. He was going to finish this meeting, and go and talk to Colwenna right now, before someone diverted his train of thought. He stood up, prompting his visitors to do the same. "I assume there's nothing more for now?" he asked, looking between the three men.

Fenbrand answered. "No, sir. We'll take this away, start making all of the necessary arrangements."

"Thank you."

One by one, each pausing to give a respectful nod, the three visitors let themselves out.

He found Colwenna in her office.

He knocked lightly on her door. She looked up, frowning, but her frown quickly turned into a smile. "Good morning, sir. Was there something I could help you with?"

He wielded his personal tablet, on which he'd brought up his calendar for the next week. "I had a question, about my schedule for Sunday morning."

"You should have called," she said, setting some papers aside to step out from behind her desk. "I would have come up to your office."

"Figured it wouldn't do any harm for me to come to you for once instead."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure the Household staff will feel the same way."

He grinned, remembering how one maid had reacted when he'd appeared in the hallway behind her. She'd stared at him in abject horror, as if she'd just come face to face with the Dark Lord of Mordor himself, then scurried away, dropping a curtsy of sorts as she passed. "They did seem a little bit shocked to see me down on this floor, yes."

"What was it you had a question about?" she asked, slipping on her reading glasses.

He opened the calendar page for Sunday, which showed his morning was totally empty. "Are you absolutely sure I don't have anything here?" It seemed strange to have a three hour open block, given how busy the rest of his month was.

"I am, yes," she said, nodding. "I put the block in myself." She frowned. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all, no. But shouldn't I be meeting with Elfhelm?" He swiped a dozen pages back. "I last saw him two weeks ago, when we went for our ride along the river." The ride that should have ended with the two of them having lunch, until Elfhelm had decided he had a better idea. "Am I not meeting him at The Rohan Club for racquetball and lunch?"

"No, sir, you're not."

The way she said it—with a kind smile, and patience and tolerance in her voice—told him they'd discussed this already. Sighing, he said, "You told me about this already, didn't you?"

"Last weekend, sir, yes. Lord Elfhelm has another engagement on Sunday. He's attending the naming party for the new Romengar baby."

He remembered now. She'd mentioned it to him on Sunday night, asked him if he'd thought about what he might like to do with his time. He hadn't then; he had the _perfect_ idea for the time now. "I'm ashamed to admit, I completely forgot."

Her smile was sympathetic. "You've had a lot on your mind this week."

A lot on his mind. No fucking shit.

"Was there something else you wanted to use the time for?" Colwenna asked. "Something you'd like me to arrange for you?"

"As it happens, yes, there is. I'd like to invite someone up to the Palace for brunch."

Colwenna gave him a knowing look. "Would that someone be Lady Solwen, by any chance?"

"Am I that predictable?"

Smiling again, she patted his arm. "Only to someone who knows you well." She went to grab and open her own (physical) planner. "You have an event in Larsbrook at one, you'll need to leave by noon at the latest. What time did you want to invite her up for?"

"Is nine too early?" He wanted to spend some decent time with her—a couple of hours at least.

"Not for the Palace, it isn't. I'm taking Sunday off, but Bregdan should be able to cover."

Would it be too early for Solwen? There was only one sure way to find out. "Can you contact Lady Solwen for me? Extend the invite, decide on a time?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." He closed his tablet over and turned away to head back to his office. Halfway to the door, he paused, thinking a crazy new thought. "Actually…"

"Change of plans?"

He nodded. "I was just thinking, can you rustle up a phone number for me?"

Colwenna blinked in surprise. "You want to call Lady Solwen yourself?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Not necessarily. It's just not how we usually do things," she said. "If you call, and someone else answers, and they recognize your voice, it might cause more trouble than it's worth."

"If that happens, I'll just hang up, keep calling back until she answers."

"Yes, because nothing screams romance quite like being a chronic nuisance caller," she said tartly.

That definitely wasn't the impression he wanted to make. "Okay, how about I call once, if Solwen answers, I'll talk to her, if she doesn't, I'll hang up, have you deal with it for me instead? How does that sound?"

"Not as alarming as your original plan."

"Any chance you can get the number to me ASAP?" He didn't want to leave this too long, in case he forgot to deal with it all over again.

"Give me thirty minutes," she said. "Let me see what I can dig up."

True to her word, she appeared in his office a speedy twenty-two minutes later.

"Here you go," she said, holding out a folded-up piece of paper. "It's the main number for the Hamelmark house. I haven't been able to obtain Lady Solwen's personal number."

He took the piece of paper from her. "Where did you get this?"

"From Brendal."

Bema, of course—from when Brendal had fixed the 'fax. If he'd remembered that, he would have gone down to the garage, gotten the number from his mechanic's records directly. "I hope that wasn't too stressful for you," he asked, knowing how little it usually took for Colwenna and Brendal to start butting heads.

"Not at all. For once, Brendal was delighted to help."

"He's always delighted to help with me."

"But you're the _King_ , sir."

"True."

She turned to leave, pausing as she reached the door. "Just remember, you need to dial nine."

"Sorry?"

"To get an outside line on the phone."

"I knew that," he lied.

She arched a brow at him. "Nine first, wait for the tone, then dial the full number." She set her hand on the door handle. "I'll be in my office if you need me."

Once she was gone, he picked up the phone, hit nine, waited for the monotone that told him he had an outside line, then punched in the ten digit number for the Hamelmark house.

Someone picked up after three rings. "The Hamelmark residence," a woman who definitely wasn't Solwen said.

Shit.

He should hang up now, call Colwenna, have her handle this for him. But the woman had a broad Marcher accent, so it probably wasn't a family member—Solwen's stepmother was from Gondor, if memory served. It must be one of the staff, probably a cook or a housekeeper.

Fuck it. What was the worst that could possibly happen? Even if the woman recognized him, she worked in the home of a high-ranking earl—a call from the King shouldn't be terribly out of the ordinary for them. "Hello, may I speak with Lady Solwen, please?" he said.

"Of course. May I ask who's calling?"

"It's a private matter." A polite way of telling her to mind her own business.

Polite or not, she must have heard the rebuttal before, because all she said was, "One moment, please."

The line went quiet for a few seconds, then someone picked up. "Hello?" a slightly wary sounding Solwen said.

Next problem—how to introduce himself? His style? His title? His name? His title and style? His title and name? Just his title seemed best. "Lady Solwen, it's the King."

A pause. "Good morning," was all she said.

Which seemed ever-so-slightly disrespectful, until he remembered—she wouldn't address him as 'sir' if she thought other people were listening in.

"How are you today?" she added.

"I'm very well, thank you. And you?" he said.

"Very well, thank you."

Best to get straight to the point, before he lost his nerve, or said something stupid. "I was wondering, if you're not busy, that is, if you don't have any other plans, would you care to join me for breakfast on Sunday?"

"Sunday?"

"In the morning, yes. I was thinking maybe nine o'clock?" A perfect time—they could enjoy the morning sun on the terrace.

Silence at the other end.

She was going to refuse. He'd gone to all this fucking trouble, he was making a telephone call to the outside world _himself_ , and now she was desperately trying to decide how to politely turn him down.

Gods fucking shitting dammit.

Colwenna was right—he should have left this to her. She could hear the actual refusal, and give him a polite, ego-saving translation. Tell him Lady Solwen was waxing her legs, or walking her cats, or washing all of her bedroom linens.

But no. He'd insisted on doing this on his own, so now he had no choice but to hear her rejection firsthand.

"I hope you won't be offended, but I'm afraid I have to decline," she said.

"You have other plans?" he asked. That would blunt the rejection a bit, if she was declining because she couldn't attend, not because she didn't want to.

"I do, yes. Unfortunately, plans I can't really change."

"Something nice?"

"I'm not sure. Does a baby's naming ceremony count?"

Mother of Bema. Was everyone and their horse but him going to see this baby get named? "You're heading to the Romengar holding, then."

"I am, yes. You know about it?"

"My staff told me about it a while ago, yes. So I could send the parents a gift." Best not to mention Lady Gamulf's naming request. It was something she shouldn't have done, but nobody except him and Fenbrand needed to know she'd even done it.

"But I assume you're not going," she said.

"I know Lord Gamulf from Second School"—and by 'know', he meant they'd been there at the same time—"but not well enough that I would have a reason to attend."

"Best to stay impartial, then."

So, Solwen at least knew how the rules worked. "What about you?" he asked. "Are your families friends?"

"Our families aren't, but I'm a good friend of the Earl's daughter."

He could picture the daughter's face—pert mouth, honey blonde hair, grass-green eyes—but had to rack his brain for a name. "Elisend, isn't it?"

"That's right. We went to Second School together. We've known each other since we were twelve."

The same as him and Elfhelm, then. Just without the chaos and disaster he hoped. Or, maybe with even more. "I think the Elgolls have all been invited as well. The two Countesses are sisters. If you see him, say 'hi' to Elfhelm for me."

"I'll keep an eye out for him." She made a sound that was almost a snort. "And I'll ask his sister if she's had her door fixed."

"Sorry?"

"Lady Cenefer. She locked herself out of her house, remember?"

Elfhelm's excuse for the lunch, of course. He grinned, quite sure she was doing the same at her end. "Her door, yes, I remember now."

"I'll be home by late-afternoon. If you're free, I'd be happy to meet you for dinner instead," she suggested.

If only it was as simple as that—choose one time slot instead of another. "I'm afraid I have something arranged for dinner already."

"Something fun?"

"A ceremony for the current and new Commanding Officers of the Royal Yeomanry to mark the official change of command."

"I'm sure that'll be interesting."

That was her honest Marcher way of saying it would be dull enough to make him nod off into his soup. Which, admittedly, it probably would. But such was the life of the King—it wasn't all movie premieres and glamorous parties.

He checked the clock; he had another call in ten minutes. And he was running out of things to say. "I have another meeting to go to, so I'm afraid I'll have to leave this here."

"Thank you for calling. I'm sorry I wasn't able to accept your invitation."

"No need to apologize. It _was_ rather late notice."

"Next time, I'll be able to accept. I promise."

Would there be a next time? At some point, maybe. But he would have Colwenna handle it for him. This arranging things yourself was just too hard on his poor, frazzled nerves. "Enjoy the naming ceremony."

"Enjoy your dinner with the Royal Yeomanry."

"Thank you. I'll try my best." He pressed the button to end the call, placing the handset back in the cradle.

Solwen swore as the line went dead.

Why did she feel as if she'd just mortally offended the King?

It was ridiculous; she'd done nothing wrong, he had no damn right to feel offended.

If he wanted to have brunch with her, maybe issue the invitation more than a couple of days in advance? Just because other people might be willing to drop everything and run to do whatever he wanted didn't mean she was as well. It wasn't that she cared about the naming party—three hours with Elisend's family was sort of her idea of hell—but she'd promised Elisend she would go, and she never, ever went back on a promise. Especially not to her best friend.

Erland strolled into the hall, cleaning an apple on his shirt. She'd forgotten he wasn't working today. "Someone inviting you for dinner?" he said.

"For brunch," she said. "Not that it's any of your business."

"You know the rules. If you take a call in the hall or the kitchen, we're all allowed to eavesdrop on you."

"You're all allowed to be nosy fucking bastards, you mean."

"Don't go getting all high-and-mighty about it. Not like you don't eavesdrop as well."

And at least the rest of the family didn't eavesdrop while they were on the loo. "Yes, but I don't interrogate you about it right after." She had the decency to wait at least thirty minutes.

"I'm not interrogating you," he said, taking a noisy bite of his apple.

"You're asking me questions I don't want to answer. That counts as an interrogation to me."

Erland sighed. "Solly, what the fuck is wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just annoyed."

"I figured that, yes," he said drily. "Am I allowed to ask, at who, and why?"

She waved at the phone. "At _him_. Because he asked me at ten o'clock today to have brunch with him on Sunday morning."

He froze mid-chew, realizing what she was saying. "And when you say _him_ , you mean the guy you had lunch with two weeks ago?"

"That guy, yes. But I can't have brunch with him on Sunday, because I'm going to the baby naming thing."

His lips curled in an exultant grin. "He wants to see you again."

"Yeah? So?"

Muttering under his breath, he grabbed her by the arm, pushed her into their father's office and quietly closed the door behind them. "What the _fuck_ do you mean, _so_? The King of Rohan just called you, in _person_ , no less, not through some middleman flunky, to ask you to have dinner with him. Do you have _any_ idea what that means?"

"Brunch. Not dinner."

"He _likes_ you, Solly."

"Not now, he probably doesn't."

"You turned him down because you had plans you couldn't and wouldn't change. If he uses that to decide he can't be bothered with you, he's an arsehole, and not worth losing any sleep over."

"I know that. But I'm _still_ annoyed." Utterly, almost irrationally so.

"Why?"

She searched for the words, but nothing would come. "I can't explain why. I just am."

"Just wait and see what happens." He grinned. "Twenty quid says he calls you again."

One of these days, His Blessed Majesty would remember that whenever he made personal plans, it usually helped if he passed those plans along to various other people.

Colwenna was a woman of many talents and skills, but sadly, omniscience wasn't one of them. And brunches didn't make themselves, not even in the Meduseld Palace's kitchens.

The door to his sitting room was ajar—she knocked to let him know she was coming then stuck her head in.

He'd just finished changing into the evening suit she'd laid out—he was trying to fasten one of his cuffs, and he hadn't laced up his shoes.

He smiled as he saw her, wrestling the cufflink into place. "If it's something important, it'll have to wait," he said. "I'm due to leave in ten minutes."

"I'll be quick, don't worry."

"What's up?"

"I'm finalizing plans for the weekend with Bregdan. What time did you agree for your brunch on Sunday? With Lady Solwen, I mean?"

His smile vanished as if he'd switched off. "I didn't agree a time," he said, sitting down to tie up his laces. "I'm not having brunch with her."

"Why not?"

"She's busy. She has other plans she can't break."

Which wasn't entirely unexpected, given Sunday was only two days away. "Not to worry. I'm sure we can arrange something another time." When that other time would be, Bema only knew…

He waved her comment away. "Nothing to worry about right now. I'll think about it again next week." He tied his laces, yanking the loops to tighten them as if he was trying to throttle someone. "Or in a couple of weeks, when my schedule's not so busy."

"Don't be silly. I can call her tonight while you're out. I have your schedule, let me talk it over with her, set something up."

He stood up, smoothing his tie. "It's not important. So, like I said, don't worry about it." His words were firm, sounding almost like a command.

Not important? After he'd gone to the trouble of contacting Lady Solwen himself? Of making the first personal phone call he'd made in over two years? It was times like this that made her understand why his grandmother sometimes wanted to thrash him, because right this instant, she wouldn't mind whaling into him herself.

"Are we _really_ going to do this?" she said.

He frowned. "Do what?"

"Are you really going to stand there and tell _me_ , of all people, that you're not interested in seeing Lady Solwen again after all?"

"It's not that I'm not interested." He went to grab his watch from the table. "I just don't want to think about it right now."

" _Horseshit_ ," she said.

"Sorry?" he said, taken back.

"You heard me."

He sighed. "Colwenna, I don't know what point you're trying to make here—"

"Oh, away and _shite_ ," she said, borrowing one of Brendal's phrases. "You know _exactly_ what point I'm trying to make here. You called Lady Solwen to ask her to have brunch with you, but she had to say no, for reasons entirely outwith her control, so now, instead of doing the sensible thing, lining up another shot at the net, you've decided you'd rather take your ball and go home to sulk."

"Okay, well, if we're getting into football analogies, I think I—"

"Eomer!" she barked.

That got his attention; she almost never used his first name. " _What_?"

"Stop diverting. And stop being such a pain in the _arse_."

"I'm not—"

"Do you or do you not want to see Lady Solwen again?" she said, rolling right through and over whatever protest he'd been about to make.

He blew out a frustrated sigh. "I do, yes."

"Then let me call her, and set something up."

He went to grab his jacket from the hanger. "But what if she refuses again?" he said, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

And there it was—the truth of the matter—a mixture of sensitive royal pride and a crippling fear of being rebuffed. It was all that bloody girl Lothiriel's fault. "She won't refuse you again. Trust me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." She was going to set this bloody date up, even if she had to send Fastmer down to the Hamelmark house to drag Lady Solwen out by the feet. Not that she had any doubt on what Lady Solwen's response would be. _She_ at least seemed to have some sense. Not much, but some. "I'll call her tonight, take care of everything for you."

"It won't be too much trouble?"

"Of course not." She went to pick some lint from his shoulder, gestured for him to turn around so she could check the back of his jacket as well. "Leave it to me. I'll find a spot in your schedule somewhere."

"An evening spot," he added.

"Sorry?"

"When she came for lunch two weeks ago, I told Lady Solwen I would have her back in the evening sometime, so she could see the city at night." His smile was almost shy. "You know how romantic the night view it is."

She certainly did. And wasn't that a good sign, if he was thinking about romance for once, and not just about who or what he would have for dessert? "I'll see what we can do."

"You're sure it's not too much trouble?"

"I'm sure, yes."

"Thank you," he said, showing another soft smile.

She shooed him towards the door. "Leave this to me. You get yourself downstairs. Your car will be waiting for you."

Once he was gone, she closed up his rooms and headed back to her office.

When she was halfway down the King's Hall, she saw Seonell emerge from The Princess Royal's apartments. The other woman smiled and waved.

"You're looking a little harried today," Seonell said as Colwenna drew near. "His Majesty giving you trouble again?"

When wasn't he giving her trouble? "Seonell, I swear, sometimes, that man is the most stubborn, most pigheaded, most idiotic person in this whole bloody Palace." Which was saying something, given how stubborn Fastmer was, and how idiotic some of the younger footmen could be.

Seonell smiled. "Have I ever told you, how glad I am I work for his sister instead?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice, yes."

"It's almost five," Seonell said. "And it's Friday. Come have an end-of-week drink with me? I have a lovely bottle of rosé port in my office."

Right now, a measure of port would go down a treat. But she had to call Lady Solwen first—she was going to set this dinner date up if it was the last thing she ever did. "I'd love to, thank you. I just need to make a quick phone call first."

"Of course." Seonell turned to walk away. "I have a couple of things to wrap up myself. Come join me whenever you're ready."

Back in her office, she went to grab her planner with the King's schedule. She flicked past both weekend days, knowing they were already full one way or the other.

Her heart sank as she realized the King didn't have a single decent block of free time anywhere in the next week. His next fully free evening was the sixteenth—almost two weeks away. She flicked back to check the upcoming week again. He was out for dinner every night, but he should be home by eight on Tuesday. Might that work? Not a dinner date as such, but something more casual, with drinks and snacks?

"As long as the snacks in question aren't each other," she muttered.

She grabbed the phone, found the note she'd made with Lady Solwen's information and stabbed the number into the phone.

It took five rings for someone to answer. "Hello?" a bored-sounding young man said.

"Hello, could I speak to Lady Solwen, please?"

"Can I ask who's calling?"

"Colwenna Wincrane," was all she said—no need to give the young man more than what he needed to know. Or more than he might be capable of accurately repeating.

"Hang on. I'll go grab her for you."

A minute later, someone picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Solwen," a more familiar voice said.

"Lady Solwen, it's Colwenna Wincrane. How are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you. And you?"

"Excellent, thank you. I'm actually calling for the King," she said. "I know he called you this morning to invite you to brunch on Sunday, but you weren't able to accept."

"Unfortunately, I wasn't, no. I have another function to attend. Something I can't cancel."

"That's quite alright, these things happen." She shifted her phone to the other hand and grabbed her pen, ready to block the space in the planner. "I was wondering, are you free on Tuesday night instead?"

"This coming Tuesday?"

She nodded, not that Solwen could see. "The ninth of June."

"I'm free that night, yes."

"Would you like to come to the Palace for a late drink? Around eight fifteen?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

She drew around the block of time and wrote 'SH' in the middle. "I'll apologize on the King's behalf for not being able to make it a proper dinner engagement, but his schedule is absolutely jammed right now."

"It's quite alright. I know he's a very busy man."

Busy didn't even begin to describe it. "I'll send an unmarked car to your house. It'll pick you up at eight o'clock sharp."

"Don't go to any huge trouble. I'm only half a mile from the Palace. If you can give my name to the guards at the gate, I'll just walk up to the top of the hill."

If only it were as simple as that. "Lady Solwen, one does _not_ simply walk into the Meduseld Palace."

"I've walked in before."

When she'd come to collect her bike from the garage, of course. "That was only to meet with Brendal. This will be to meet with the King. There are stricter procedures to follow."

"Of course. My apologies. I never thought about that."

"No apologies necessary." But Lady Solwen's offer did make her think of one other thing. "And I hope you won't be offended, but I'm going to ask the driver to bring you to the garage. I'll meet you there, the same as when you came for lunch. The King is a very private man, and bringing a car to any of the side or front doors tends to attract a lot of undue attention."

"Not offended at all. I quite understand. To be honest, I'd rather not attract any attention, either."

So, she wasn't in this to put her face on a magazine cover, then. That was a promising start. "Excellent. I'll see you on Tuesday night, around eight-ten?"

"Could I ask about one other thing?"

"Of course."

Sounding slightly embarrassed, Solwen said, "Do you have any advice on what I should wear?"

Another promising note, and one that made Colwenna smile. "It's an informal event, so something comfortable and pretty will do. But you might want to bring a shawl or cardigan with you. It can get a little cool on the terrace once the sun has gone down."

"That's very helpful, thank you. I'll see you on Tuesday night."

"You certainly will."

Solwen put the phone down.

Now, she had another problem—what the ever-loving fuck did 'comfortable and pretty' mean? Was that a dress? A skirt and a top? Cargo pants and a sexy white tee? She might have a strappy dress that would do, buried in the bowels of her closet. But she had four full days until the date—plenty of time to check, and buy something else if she didn't.

She thought about what shoes she could wear as she wandered back out to the terrace.

Her dad looked up from where he and Erland were moving one of the wooden planters. "Something interesting?" he said.

Him and his prying arsehole routine again. Just for once, she would like to be able to take a call without someone asking her twenty questions about it. "Makes you think that?" she said.

"Astalor said it was someone called Colwenna." He straightened up, wiping his brow. "I just remembered, that's the name of the woman who runs King Eomer's Household for him."

Bema fucking save her. Was there anything about this town her dad didn't know? "And?" she said, not confirming or denying, trying to buy some time while she thought up a half-decent excuse.

He shrugged. "Just curious as to why she'd be calling you. If it _was_ her, that is."

Erland, bless his devious heart, pulled her feet out of the fire. "Someone from the Palace called me as well," he said as casually as he could, turning his back on their dad for a moment to shoot a warning glare at her. "Yesterday. A woman. Something for the Midsummer party."

Solwen thought of a _perfect_ excuse. "Car details, right?"

Erland nodded. "For the checkpoint at the main gate." He turned to their dad. "Nothing mysterious. You can put your ears away."

"Huh," their dad said. He looked at her, looked at Erland, shrugged and trotted down to the end of the garden to haul out another bag of soil.

"You owe me a drink," Erland murmured.

"You help me keep dad out of this, I'll buy you a five course fucking dinner and a whole case of Dunharrow Reserve."

"What did she really want?"

"To propose another time for a date."

He made a victory fist. "I _told_ you he would call back. When are you seeing him?"

"Tuesday night."

"This Tuesday?"

She nodded.

"He's keen." Erland snickered. "He must not be getting it much right now."

Sex; that was something she hadn't considered. "I'm not having sex with him on the first date."

" _Second_ date."

"That lunch didn't count. And even if it did, I'm still not going to have sex with him."

"You always say that, but it never actually happens." He hauled the planter into position. "You know as well as I do, you're going to have a few drinks, pin him onto the nearest couch and ball him into next week."

"I'm sticking to it this time, I promise."

"I shouldn't stop by your room on Wednesday morning to ask you what royal cock tastes like, then?"

She punched him hard in the gut; grunting, he staggered back, tripping over the planter to land in an ungainly sprawl.

From the bottom of the garden, their dad hollered out, "If you two are going to fight with each other, can you do it on the lawn instead of the terrace? Blood's a pain to clean out of stone."

"Thanks, dad. We love you, too," Erland hollered back.

"I'm not fucking him," she said, grabbing a bag of soil to empty it into the planter. "If he's expecting sex, he's going to be _very_ disappointed."


	48. Chapter 48

**Saturday June 6, 2020**

Sometimes, in this job, a friendship could be a curse. And sometimes, it could be a blessing.

Which description applied right now, Fenbrand wasn't quite sure.

He rushed along the King's Hall, hoping he could still speak to the King, despite the lateness of the hour. He came to a halt in front of the guards—Guthlaf and Elfwina tonight. He took a moment to catch his breath; it would never do to let the staff know how harried he felt. "Has the King retired for the night yet?" he asked, suspecting the answer was 'no', since one of the doors was slightly ajar.

Guthlaf answered. "Not yet, sir, no."

"Has he given orders he's not to be interrupted?" This was His Majesty's private time—he might have a _guest_ of some sorts with him.

"No, sir. He hasn't."

Relief flooded through him. "Thank you, Guthlaf." Fenbrand stepped up to the door, pushing it in, going in search of his monarch. The door to His Majesty's office was locked, and the public reception rooms were dark, lit only by a small safety lamp on a desk, but light peeked out from under the door to the King's private rooms. The light was flickering, and Fenbrand could hear an assortment of muffled voices; the King was probably watching television.

He went to the door and knocked three times, loudly enough for anyone inside to hear.

The muffled voices stopped. "Come in," the King called out.

Fenbrand pushed through the door, nodding respectfully as he stepped in, painfully aware of the fact he was about to enter the King's private suite—the holiest of the Meduseld's holies.

His Majesty was on his couch, dressed in jeans and a comfortable shirt, his pen clasped in one hand, a glass of red wine to one side of him on a table, his open despatch box on the other. He had obviously been watching television—switched off now—and slowly working through some papers.

"Your Majesty," Fenbrand started, quickly bowing again. "Forgive the intrusion at such a late hour, but something has come up tonight that I thought you wouldn't want to know about ASAP."

Frowning, the King set his pen and the piece of paper he was reading aside. "Something unpleasant, I assume?"

"I'm afraid so, yes." Fenbrand took a deep breath. "I just took a personal call from Rickon Wordale, sir. I'm sure you already know who that is—"

"The owner of the Edoras Times."

"He was calling to let me know, they've received a request for the Announcements section this coming Monday."

The King's expression turned to stone. "Thenwis," was all he said.

Fenbrand nodded. "She's publishing her petition, it seems."

"Do you have the petition text?"

"I do, sir, yes." He held out a piece of paper, on which he'd scribbled the wording Rickon had dictated to him.

The King took the paper to scan it. Fenbrand knew from the way his jaw clenched when he'd reached the most troublesome section. "Is she serious?" he asked. "She's really going to ask them for _this_?"

"Apparently, yes."

"There's not a hope in _hell_ the Hall will agree. The first clause, _maybe_ , on a generous day, if they're in the mood to cause trouble. But the second clause?" He snorted. "I knew she was ambitious, now, I'm starting to think she's delusional as well."

"It does seem rather a lot to ask for."

The King held the paper out, Fenbrand took it back. "And it's going in Monday's edition, you said?"

Fenbrand nodded. "The morning City edition."

The King stood, grabbing his glass on the way up to finish what was left of his wine. "Not wasting any bloody time, is she? I opened Parliament two days ago, and she's already got her plan of attack lined up."

Someone knocked on the door.

The King turned, frowning. "Come in!" he called out.

The visitor was The Princess Royal, looking as flushed and harried as Fenbrand felt. Her gaze flicked from him to the King, instantly absorbing the scene. "I just heard some rather interesting news," she said, skipping the social usual greetings.

"About Thenwis, by any chance?" the King said with a wry smile.

The Princess nodded. "About her petition, yes. It'll be in The Edoras Times on Monday. I only just found out, I'm trying to get a hold of the actual text."

"Don't bother. Fenbrand has it already," the King said, waving at the piece of paper, which Fenbrand held out.

The Princess took it from him to scan through the text, reading it under her breath. Her reaction was no more subtle than the King's. "Is she serious?" she asked, looking between them, plainly astonished. "She's really going to ask them for this?"

Fenbrand answered. "As far as we know, ma'am, yes."

"Eomer, this is even worse than we thought."

"Yes, thank you, Wynna," the King said, tersely. "Believe it or not, I'm _painfully_ aware of that."

"We need to have an answer ready," the Princess said. "Something we can put out to the press on Monday. Something that makes it perfectly clear we'll meet her with all guns blazing, and that she's not going to win this without a fight."

"Wynna, put the nuclear missiles away. She's just publishing a petition, not declaring a blood vendetta against us."

The Princess's contemptuous snort made her opinion on that viewpoint clear.

"With your permission, sir, I'll prepare an official response from your office?" Fenbrand said. "Have it ready to go out to the papers on Monday?"

To his surprise, the King shook his head. "No response to the petition. Not yet, at least. I want to have my audience with the Prime Minister on Tuesday first, see what she has to say on the matter."

That rang a whole new set of Fenbrand's alarms. "It's highly unlikely she'll discuss such a sensitive issue with you, sir. It would be wandering perilously close to violating the Crown Neutrality Clause."

"She won't discuss it explicitly, no, but Harbrand knows how to talk between the lines, and I know how to read what she says. Once I have an idea of what position she's going to take, _then_ we'll put out a statement. If she tells me she's going to wait for the Hall to do its thing, then squash the petition like a bug if and when it hits the House, I might not put out anything at all." He shrugged. "There'll be no need."

"I'm willing to admit that's a reasonable point," the Princess said.

"My sister approves of something I said," the King murmured. "Wonder of wonders. Someone mark that down in my diary for me."

The Princess rolled her eyes.

Grinning, the King continued. "Let's talk about this again on Tuesday, once I've met with Harbrand, figure out our next steps then." To Fenbrand, he said, "If anyone contacts you for a comment, give them something neutral and bland. Something with no actual information in it. You know the kind of comment I mean."

Fenbrand certainly did—coming up with those types of comments was one of his primary skills. "Of course, sir. That sounds like an excellent plan."

"Thank you, Fenbrand. That will be all for now."

Fenbrand let himself out, nodding to the guards as he passed, not-hurrying back to his grace-and-favour house in the grounds, already thinking about what he might say…

Once Fenbrand was out of sight (and more important, out of hearing), Eowyn turned to her brother and said, "What will you do if Harbrand doesn't want to support you?"

"I don't know," said Eomer, rubbing his eyes. "And to be honest, I'd rather not think about it right now. It's ten o'clock on a Saturday night, and I've been up _literally_ since the crack of dawn. All I want to do now is have some more wine, finish watching the film I started, work my way through a few more papers, then go to bed and get a decent night's sleep."

"You'll have to think about it eventually."

"I know I will. Just not tonight."

"What's the film?"

"Sorry?"

She waved at the television. "The movie you started. What is it?"

"No idea. Some twenty-year-old Gondorian thing about a guy in a car being chased by another guy in a truck."

Yes, that was the kind of film he would watch. "Sounds very artistic."

"I'm not watching it for the subtext or the social commentary, Wynna. I'm just trying to get my brain to switch off."

He needed peace and quiet, then. Not her haranguing him about the petition, or sharing her brewing suspicion that Thenwis had upped the stakes and gone in full bore because of what he'd said to her at his birthday party. There was no point in telling him that—it would just make him feel even more shitty. "I'll leave you to it." She paused at the door. "Another busy day tomorrow?"

He nodded. "I'm going to the track in the morning, want to try out my new riding suit. Should be back here by eleven. I have engagements from noon all the way through until eight."

Her Sunday was busy as well, but not quite as busy as that. "I'll be in and out myself, so I probably won't see you until Monday."

"We'll catch up then," he said, stifling a yawn.

"Sleep well." She smiled. "Try not to dream about killing Thenwis."

Eomer set his box of papers aside, all inclination for work now gone.

He picked up the cable remote, intending to bring up the PVR to watch the rest of his shitty movie, thought better of it and hit the 'Off' button.

For a few minutes, he simply sat, listening to the sound of the antique clock on the mantelpiece ticking.

How he wished he could point a remote at his problems. Thenwis and her bloody petition. Eowyn and her well-intentioned but unsubtle arranging. His grandmother and her various threats. Camelor and his vendetta. The situation in the March. The Midsummer party. The goddamn anniversary banquet.

But he couldn't complain; it wasn't all bad.

At least he had something nice on his schedule tomorrow—two whole hours by himself at the track.

And, thanks to Colwenna's persistence, something nicer again on Tuesday—two whole hours (or more) with Solwen.

He was pretty sure those latter two hours were going to be the best part of his week.


	49. Chapter 49

**Sunday June 7, 2020**

Fourteen degrees and an overcast sky—perfect racing weather.

Eomer scanned from left to right, taking in the start-finish straight of the Gleodream Circuit. Apart from Brendal, and his guards, and a dozen or so of the circuit staff Fastmer knew and had cleared to help out, there wasn't a single person in sight. For the next two hours, the track was his.

Sometimes, being friends with a racetrack owner was a truly wonderful thing.

He turned to walk back to the garage, where Brendal was hunched over the dash, fiddling with some of the Firefoot's settings. "How are we doing?" Eomer said.

"Good," was Brendal's helpful response. "I tweaked her another wee bit, if you treat her well, put the power on right, she _might_ give you two-thirteen."

Two hundred and thirteen horses. And today, he was going to let every single one of those horses loose. This was a private track, where public traffic laws didn't apply. No speed limit here to worry about, and apart from Fastmer, no stern-faced cop to flag him down and wag an admonishing finger at him.

Brendal stood up, throwing the tiny tool he'd been using into his box. "All done. She's good to go when you are, sir."

The dragon was ready. Time to suit up and put his boots on.

He and Brendal wheeled the Firefoot out of the garage and up to the line.

"How's the suit doing?" Brendal asked as he kicked the side stand down. "Comfy enough?"

Eomer turned his hand back and forth. "Pretty good. A bit tight around the thighs and the family jewels, but I know I just need to break it in."

"Best way to do that is just to wear it. I used to sleep in mine when I had one. Worked a right treat."

That seemed a _little_ excessive. "When you say things like that, Brendal, it makes me realize why you're single."

"Some girls like that kind of thing, sir."

"Take your word for it. I wouldn't know."

Grinning, Brendal walked around him, peering at his neck. "How's the airbag collar?"

"Feels a bit strange," Eomer said, wiggling his head back and forth and from side to side. "Like I'm being gently strangled."

Brendal snorted. "It won't be gentle if you activate it, trust me. You'll feel as if someone's put your head and neck in a vice."

"Isn't that the whole point?"

"Just try not to do anything that'll trigger it, please?" Brendal pleaded. "I mean, not because I'm concerned about you, don't get me wrong. It's just, that style of collar's an absolute _bitch_ to reset."

"Brendal, as always, your concern for my physical and mental well-being almost threatens to overwhelm me."

Brendal patted him on the shoulder. "You're good to go, sir. Have fun, but don't do anything stupid, please."

Brendal strode off the track, just as a grim-faced Fastmer arrived, carrying his racing-grade helmet. "The staff have checked the whole circuit, sir, everything looks good. The surface is clean and dry. No gravel. No spills." He smirked as he held the helmet out. "No wandering people."

"Thank you, Fastmer. Let them know I'm grateful for all their help." Eomer took his helmet to pull it on and fasten it up, wiggling it to make it fit against the slightly firmer-than-usual collar.

"Be careful, sir, please," Fastmer almost pleaded. "I know it's a private track, and I know you're here to get your knee down, but I'd feel much better if you kept it to a reasonable speed."

"If I promise I won't take her over two hundred, would you believe me?"

Fastmer's response was a weary glare and another of his magnificent sighs. They were getting to be almost a language.

Eomer went to the bike and swung his leg over. "I'm only going to do twelve laps," he said. He couldn't stay at the track too long—he had to get back to the Palace to change and be ready to leave again at noon. "Four to warm up, four in the zone, four to wind down. I'll be done and back in twenty-five minutes."

Fastmer nodded and backed away. "We'll be waiting for you at the line."

Back in the garage, Brendal watched as Fastmer went to a laptop on the shelf to bring it out of hibernate mode. "This is the one connected to his camera signal, right?" Fastmer said.

"That's right."

The laptop came back to life, showing a view of the track through the Firefoot windscreen over the dash, courtesy of the tiny camera attached to the front of the tank. It was part for safety—so they always knew exactly where the bike was— but also so the King could check his speed and lines through the curves later.

"He'll be fine," Brendal said. "He's a good rider. He's done this plenty of times before."

Fastmer sighed. "I know he is. And I know he has." He grabbed a stool to pull it up to the shelf. "But every time we come here, I feel like I'm back in the Army again. Prepping for a live operation, wondering if this one's going to be the one I don't come back from."

Which made Brendal wonder how many operations Fastmer had been on. "There's a bar upstairs, you know. I'm sure I could persuade the staff to open it up and bring you a beer, if you think that would help you relax."

"It's nine o'clock on a Sunday morning," Fastmer said, looking at him as if he was mad. "And I'm on duty for the next six hours. What on _earth_ would I want a beer for?"

That would be a solid 'no', then. Brendal shrugged. "Fair enough."

Metre by metre, lap by lap, Eomer rode deeper and deeper into the zone.

By the time he started lap seven, he was almost riding on automatic. Not in the sense of checking out—that was a quick and easy way to a painful, bone-crushing death—more that everything was running so well, he felt as if he was part of the bike, and the bike was part of him.

He moved to the right side of the track, preparing to take a hairpin corner that curved sharply to the left, but this time, going for a late apex line instead of the standard geometric approach. He waited, waited, resisting the urge to turn in too early, but knowing he couldn't turn in too late, judged the moment, hit the brakes and threw himself over into the lean.

It was _perfect_ ; he could just feel it. The turn mark was right, the lean was right, the traction was right, his speed through the corner was right. He looked ahead, already judging when to pick up out of the lean and open the throttle to race down the straight.

It was perfect.

Until the prairie squirrel appeared.

He saw it pop up out of its hole. Saw it scamper towards the track. Saw it freeze in abject terror, scamper back towards the hole, before turning and rushing out into the track again.

Right into his front fucking wheel.

If he hadn't reacted, if he'd ignored the squirrel and just held the line, he would likely have made it out of the corner just fine. The squirrel was tiny, and his front wheel—the best carbon fiber and vulcanized rubber money could buy—was a spinning, squirrel-squashing machine.

But he was only human; he _did_ react. And sadly, not in the right way. He jerked the bike away from the threat, not a lot—maybe a centimetre or two at the most—but at the speed he was doing, even that was enough to make the front wheel wobble. He tried to hold it, tried to steady the front and reclaim the grip, but he could tell it was a losing battle. The front wheel slide out, taking him down, slamming him into the road. Searing pain shot through his left shoulder. The world started to turn—the back wheel was trying to follow the front, pushing him round as he moved.

He heard a strange, inhuman shrieking—the sound of high-end carbon fiber shredding to pieces and splitting apart, the sound of metal scraping on tarmac in a shower of fiery sparks—the sound of the dragon dying.

He was moving too fast; he had to let go. He released his grip, relaxed his legs, allowing the bike to slide away, carried by its own momentum. He watched in anguish as his 'foot careened across the gravel trap at full speed, then into the tire-lined wall at the side of the track, leaving a trail of plastic and parts in its wake.

He tried to sit up, thinking he'd already come to a stop, realized he was still sliding as well, promptly lay back down. He could feel the airbag around his neck, fully inflated, protecting his neck and spine—it must have triggered when the bike had gone over. He slid into the gravel trap himself, wincing as his arse bumped and juddered across the pebbles, and after what seemed like an eternity, came to a sudden but gentle halt.

He lay perfectly still, heart beating as if it was trying to burst out of his chest, breaths coming in anxious gasps, a high-pitched ringing sound in his ears. His back and legs were throbbing. He twitched his toes, relieved to find his legs still worked. He hadn't just severed his spinal cord, then. When he twitched his fingers, everything worked, but pain streaked through his upper left arm. Something wasn't quite right there.

Above him, he noticed the clouds had cleared and the sky was a perfect, beautiful shade of blue.

He had no idea how long it was before help arrived—it could have been anything from ten seconds to twenty minutes. Foosteps chundered across the gravel; a few seconds later, Fastmer appeared, skidding to a frantic halt to drop to a knee beside him. "Don't move," he ordered. No time for 'sir' or 'Your Majesty' now.

But the air in the helmet was suffocating—he needed to open his visor.

"I said _don't move_ ," Fastmer repeated, as Eomer started to lift his hand. More footsteps, then Dernbrand appeared at Fastmer's side, cold fear etched into his face. "Call the ambulance," Fastmer said to the younger guard. "We need to get him to the hospital ASAP." Dernbrand nodded curtly and vanished again.

"I don't need an ambulance," Eomer said. But his visor was shut, Fastmer probably couldn't hear him. Ignoring Fastmer's order, he raised a hand to flip the visor up. "I don't need an ambulance. Honestly. I'm fine. I'm just winded. I don't think anything's broken."

"You don't know that for sure. If you've damaged something, and we let you stand up, it could kill you."

"I can wiggle all my fingers and toes." Eomer turned his head from side to side. "And I can move my head. I'm okay. Really." Wincing, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Fastmer said, throwing deference to the wind.

"I'm sitting up." Pain shot through his left shoulder again. Eomer patted it with his right hand. "Something's not right with my left shoulder."

"You don't lie down and do what you're told, there's going to be something not right with more than just your shoulder."

They were onto the threats of violence, then. Awesome. "Fastmer—"

More footsteps, Brendal charged up, his eyes full of anger and pant-shitting fear. "What part of don't do anything stupid did you not understand?"

"It was all the squirrel's fault," Eomer said. Which, in hindsight, was a rather strange comment.

" _What_?"

"There was a squirrel. Out on the track. It ran into my wheel."

"Gonnae go home, get my gun, flush them out and shoot the bastard fuckers myself," Brendal muttered.

"I need to take my helmet off," Eomer said. "I feel like I can't breathe." But that might have more to do with his ribs than his face—his whole upper torso was aching and tender.

"Fuck that," Brendal spat. "You shouldn't even be sitting up. You're not taking the helmet off until we know you haven't damaged your neck."

"It was just a lowside. And I couldn't have been doing more than eighty. And I'm wearing a full spine protector." He reached up to undo his strap, wincing as his shoulder twinged.

"Careful," Brendal warned. "Nice and easy does it."

Slowly, carefully, centimetre by centimetre, trying to use his right arm as much as he could, he eased the helmet over his head. He turned it over to look at the damage—the left side was battered and scraped all the way through the top layer. Better the helmet than his skull, he supposed.

Dernbrand reappeared. "The ambulance is on the way, sir," he said to Fastmer. "Should be here in a few minutes."

"I don't need an ambulance," Eomer repeated, thinking about how much fuss it would cause. But he wouldn't argue about seeing a doctor—his shoulder was hurting too much for it just to be bruised. "I just need one of you to help me stand up. I'll be able to walk once I'm up on my feet." He turned to Brendal, remembering the accident's other victim. "Can you check the Firefoot for me?"

" _Fuck_ the Firefoot," Brendal said, face scrunching in indignation.

"Brendal, _please_. She's going to be damaged. I need to know if I've just written her off."

Brendal sighed. "Let me go check her out. Was a clean lowside. Might not be as bad as you think." He stood up and jogged over to where the Firefoot was lying, gesturing for two hovering circuit employees to help him.

A wave of dizziness hit him. Probably his adrenaline crashing. "I, uh, I think I'm going to lie down again," Eomer said, easing himself back onto the gravel. "Nothing's wrong, don't panic, I'm not about to pass out. I just need a moment to catch my breath."

Suddenly, that ambulance ride didn't seem like such a bad idea after all…


	50. Chapter 50

The things one did for one's best friend.

Taking the blame for a broken window at school, because you knew her father would lose his shit and take the cost out of her monthly allowance, while yours would shrug, commend you on your terrible aim and write them a cheque to pay for the damage.

Listening to a nice but dull-as-hell guy tell you everything he knew about fish while she made out with his hot-as-sin underwear model best friend at the next table over.

Lying about who you were to take a written language test for her, because she'd gotten her dates mixed up, so was still too hungover from the party she'd gone to the night before to even _think_ about an exam, but you were sober, and already fluent, so knew you could pass it for her with flying colours.

And now, here, in 2020, standing in a room-full of people you barely knew and didn't much like, smiling and pretending to care about somebody else's four-month-old child.

It wasn't that she didn't like babies. She liked them just fine, wasn't opposed to the thought of eventually having a couple of them herself, at the right time and with the right man. She would even hold them for a few minutes, make all the usual admiring sounds, if the parents weren't too obnoxiously overbearing about it. But she hated being expected to make a fuss of them, and to act as if the crotch fruit in question was the only and most important child on the whole fucking planet.

And nobody could make a fuss of their treasured offspring quite as well as this one's utter bitch of a mother.

Not for the first time, Solwen wondered what the hell Gamulf Romengar had been thinking when he'd decided to marry his wife. Had Theonara blackmailed him into proposing? Did she have photos of him doing something lewd to a horse? Had she maybe bribed him instead—offered to pitch in a sum of money so large he hadn't had the will to refuse? Or, maybe he'd been after her (admittedly exquisite) looks, determined for the sake of his children to find the best possible counterbalance to his own unremarkable features? It must be something like that. Surely, it couldn't be because he actually _liked_ her?

The number of people at the party surprised her—almost a hundred, Elisend had said. That seemed like a lot, especially for a 'mere' second child—how many guests must the Romengars have invited to the naming of Gamulf and Theonara's first child? But Elisend's parents were pretty old-fashioned—the type to do something big for the firstborn son, even when that son wasn't the heir to the family title.

The Hamelmarks and the Romengars didn't move in the same social circles, so she barely knew anyone in the room, and most of them by reputation only. Elfhelm of Elgoll was one of the few familiar faces. He was here with his parents and sister, just as the King had said, come to see his cousin's new kid. He'd nodded a greeting at her when he'd arrived, but had otherwise stayed out of her way. But they didn't officially know each other—their fathers worked together, but weren't friends—so there was no obvious reason for them to seek each other out.

Elisend appeared at her side, carrying two slender glasses of something effervescent and orange. Probably Folca's Fizz—a harmless, sweet, traditional drink for a baby's naming ceremony. She took the glass her friend held out—a quick sniff told her the contents weren't as innocuous as they looked. "Ellie, did you put booze in this?" she whispered.

Elisend nodded. "Don't worry. Just a small splash."

Except Elisend's 'small splashes' were usually at least a full ounce. "But it's not even noon."

"So?"

"So, isn't it a wee bit early to be drinking?"

Elisend snorted. "That's a bit rich, coming from the only Hamelmark in the room."

"The fuck does that mean?"

"You're complaining it's too early to drink, but we both know, in your family, there's no such thing. The last time I stayed at your house, your dad asked me if I wanted some Dunharrow in my coffee at breakfast."

"That was a _joke_ , Ellie."

"I'm pretty sure he was serious," said Elisend, shaking her head. "I think he tricked me into looking at something behind me so he could pour some into his mug without me seeing."

To be fair, that was the kind of devious thing her father would do. "It doesn't matter what _we_ do, Ellie. This is a Romengar family function. You're supposed to be proper, civilized people, remember?"

"Tell that to my _cow_ of a sister-in-law," Elisend muttered into her glass. "She wouldn't know how to be civilized if my new nephew's life depended on it."

Solwen's gaze turned to Theonara, immaculately coiffed and made up, wearing a 'mother of the baby' dress that must have cost an arm and a leg, holding court in a cluster of people at the other side of the room. Interestingly, the cluster included Elfhelm. Theonara was smiling and laughing, but Solwen knew from experience how quickly the smile could vanish and the bitch-sharp claws could come out. "She's a piece of work, isn't she?" she said. "I like Gamulf, really, I do, but I still wonder what the hell he was thinking."

"I think he was thinking mostly about her money."

"I considered that, yes."

Elisend leaned in to murmur, "Dad would feed me to the dogs if he knew I was telling you this, but our finances were rather precarious around the time Gamulf proposed. Think we were a few weeks away from having to sell our Edoras house. Theonara's money paid off the debts that were due on the loan."

Interesting. And it probably explained why Elisend was one of the few earl's daughters who had to work and earn her own money—as a mere third child of a cash-strapped House, she couldn't rely on having family funds to fall back on instead. "If I had to marry Theonara to avoid selling my house, I think I'd rather sleep on the streets."

"We can't all be as principled as you Hamelmarks, you know."

Solwen snickered. "You're implying we have principles to be principled about."

"Pig-headed, then."

"Yes, that's better."

" _You_ certainly are. Pig-headed, I mean."

"Oh, so two minutes of niceness, then we're back to insulting me again?"

Elisend rolled her eyes. "Solly, you lived abroad for eight years to avoid apologizing to someone. If that's not pig-headed, I don't know what is."

"Would you apologize to Thelden Camelor?"

"Absolutely not."

The answer Solwen had expected, since Elisend knew _exactly_ what Thelden had said. "I rest my case."

"I'm just glad the King was so reasonable about lifting your Ban."

Was this the time to tell Elisend about her 'thing' with the King? Did she and His Majesty even have a 'thing' yet for her to tell her best friend about? She didn't think so, but she would visit the question again on Wednesday morning. "He's a fairly reasonable person, I think."

Elisend's grin was wicked. "Did you know, Theonara asked him to be one of Stefon's naming parents?"

"Really?"

"Gamulf warned her he would refuse, but _she_ decided she knew better."

"I assume the King did. Refuse, I mean." She waved at the room. "Since he isn't here."

"Course he did. Theonara might not know how the rules work, but His Majesty certainly does."

"If he accepts for one, he would have to accept for all, to avoid accusations of favouritism." And it wasn't that Theonara didn't know how the rules worked—she wasn't Landed by birth, but she'd been a bloody fast learner—it was that she didn't _care_ how the rules worked. She wanted her son to have a King for a naming parent, and that was all there was to it.

"Mum said she was spitting nails when his answer came back. Acted like the King's response was a mortal insult."

"Woman needs to get the fuck over herself."

"If she's this bad now, can you imagine what she'll be like when she becomes the Countess?"

"Your dad's perfectly healthy, and only in his early sixties, so maybe by the time that happens, she'll have learned how to not be a bitch." Or, at least learned when she could write to the King.

"Not holding my breath on that one."

Solwen gestured at a tall, overdressed, middle-aged woman at the other side of the room. "Speaking of people who need to get the fuck over themselves, since when is your family so in with the Countess of Keveleok?"

Elisend groaned. "Don't get me started on that. It's because of the whole Thenwis Colafell thing. Dad's convinced himself that whatever Thenwis is doing is going to be a big win for the Countess."

"So, he's trying to hang onto her coat tails? Use it to make a win for himself?"

"Something like that."

"Ellie, you're my best friend in the whole world, so I'll say this politely, but your dad's absolutely _fooling_ himself if he thinks what Thenwis is planning won't die a quick, embarrassing death. It won't be a big win for the Countess. She keeps pushing it as much as she is, when it goes wrong"—which Solwen was sure it eventually would—"it's going to fucking _end_ her."

"You know my dad." Elisend shrugged. "Not the most sensible earl in the world."

Solwen grinned. "Don't worry. I have one of them at home as well."

"Yes, but your dad's not sensible in an interesting way. Mine's not sensible in an embarrassing way."

Sadly, she couldn't disagree. "And why the hell is Henris Keveleok here?" Solwen asked, gesturing at the petite, blonde demurely-dressed young woman standing quietly at her mother's side, looking as if she wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

"Mum invited her. I think she and dad are trying to set her up with Winnick."

Another waste of the Romengars' time. And Bema, would it kill all these parents to stay the hell out of the arranged marriage business, leave their kids to figure it out for themselves? She was so glad her own dad wasn't like that. "That's not going to happen. Henris is the oldest of the Keveleok daughters, and Winnick's only your parents' second son. The Countess will never allow it. She wants a future earl for her eldest. If your parents were angling for Henris's younger sister instead, I can't remember her name—"

"Winifrene," Elisend put in.

"Winifrene, thank you. If they were trying to set Winnick up with her, I could maybe see it, yes." Winifrene and Winnick. Bema. What a wedding logo that would make…

"Rumour has it one of the reasons the Countess is supporting Thenwis is that she's pissed at the King because he's refused to consider marrying Henris."

Yes, a King would be an even better catch than an earl. "Don't see what right she has to be angry. Who he does or doesn't marry is none of her business."

"But he does need to get married."

"At some point, yes." Solwen sipped on her juice. "But would _you_ want to have Keveleok as a mother-in-law?"

Elisend snickered. "I hadn't thought of that."

"It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for her." She gestured at the young woman. "Henris, I mean. Not the Countess. Must be awfully hard, putting up with a mother like that." Certainly an awful lot harder than putting up with her dad, who, in the grand scheme of things, wasn't really that much of a pain.

"She's actually really nice. I've gotten to know her quite well over the last few months, she's nothing like her mother at all. Shy at first, until she gets to know you. Good sense of humour once she opens up."

"I've actually never spoken to her."

"That's easily fixed." When Henris looked over, Elisend waved to catch her eye and gestured for her to join them. Henris raised a hand to her chest as if to ask 'me?', Elisend nodded and gestured again. Henris whispered something to her mother and excused herself from the group before the Countess could object.

Solwen couldn't help but notice the way the Countess followed her daughter, with an expression like thunder on her face. When she accidentally caught the Countess's eye, Solwen gave her the nicest and kindest smile her facial muscles were capable of producing. The Countess scowled and turned her back on her.

Henris approached, giving them a tentative smile. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"Of course not," Elisend said. "If we didn't want to be interrupted, we wouldn't have asked you to join us."

"I don't think your mother's very happy about it," Solwen said.

Henris sighed. "Nothing new there."

For all her meekness, there was some fire in the girl's belly, then. Good. "Are you enjoying the party?" Solwen asked.

Henris nodded. To Elisend, she said, "He's a beautiful baby. And _so_ good-natured."

"Bema knows he doesn't get that from his mother," Solwen said into her drink.

"Ignore her," Elisend said, shooting her a warning glare. "She's just angry because it's almost noon on a Sunday, and she still isn't drunk yet."

"Don't hold back on my account," Henris leaned in to whisper. "I had to listen to my mother talk all the way here in the car. If it's not inappropriate to say so, I'd quite like to be drunk right now as well."

Interesting. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Solwen said to her best friend.

Grinning, Elisend nodded. "I'm thinking we need another round of Folca's Fizz." She grabbed Solwen's empty glass from her hand. "Stay here. Be right back."

Henris frowned; Solwen held up a hand to hold off her question. "Just wait. All will be revealed."

Elisend was back a few minutes later, carrying three flutes of orange juice now instead of two. She handed them out. "This should make the next hour or two go more smoothly."

Henris raised her glass to take a quick sip. Her eyes went wide, her hand flew up to cover her cough. "What on earth did you put in it?" she gasped.

"Nothing much," Elisend said, the picture of innocence and virtue. "Just a couple of fingers of gin."

Solwen huffed. "Gin, Ellie? Really?"

"I thought you liked gin."

"I do. But you're only supposed to add it to a berry juice, not a citrus juice. When you have a citrus juice, you're supposed to use voda instead."

"Oh, well, excuse the ignorant fuck out of me."

Solwen tutted and shook her head. "And you call yourself an earl's daughter? No wonder you're not fucking married yet, if you don't even know what booze you're supposed to secretly add to what type of drink." She turned to Henris, huffing in disapproval. "Knuckle-dragging cave trolls, these Romengars. The whole bloody lot of them."

"At least I'm serving it in a glass," Elisend shot back. "You Hamelmarks probably swig it straight out of the bottle."

Solwen let out a fake-wounded gasp. "That's a _really_ hurtful thing to say. You know as well as I do, we mix our drinks in a cleaned-out laundry detergent container."

To Henris, Elisend explained, "It's the little tap thing, you see. It makes it easy for them to dispense it."

Henris looked from one of them to the other, smiling nervously, obviously not at all sure what on earth she was supposed to make of what she'd just heard.

"We're _kidding_ ," said Solwen, grinning.

Elisend huffed. " _She_ might be. _I'm_ sure as fuck not."

"I'll have you know, I have _never_ drunk alcohol out of a cleaned-out laundry detergent container in my life," Solwen said, poking her friend in the shoulder.

"But you _have_ drunk it straight out of the bottle."

"So have you." Sometimes, with one of those novelty straws. "Don't go getting all dainty and proper on me."

Henris said, "I think my mother would whip me if she caught me drinking booze straight out of a bottle."

Which was ironic, really, given what Solwen's father had told her about how much whiskey the Countess could put away. "Not really any of your mother's business, though, is it? You're a grown woman. You can drink booze out of whatever you bloody well want." A bottle. A box. An empty laundry container. A good-looking man's belly button…

"Solly…" Elisend warned, glaring again.

Henris held up a hand. "No, it's okay. I don't mind. You're right. It isn't any of my mother's business. It's just…" she broke off, sighing, swirling her drink.

Solwen knew what that sigh meant. "She's a lot of work, and you've learned not to rock the boat unless it's really worth it."

"Exactly," said Henris, forcing a smile. "Bema knows she finds plenty to complain about without me adding more ammunition on top."

"Anything in particular got her blood up today?" Elisend asked.

Henris glanced round, making sure none of the other guests were standing too close. "It's the whole Thenwis Colafell thing," she whispered. "The Hall's back in session tomorrow. Mama hasn't talked to me about it directly, but she's been taking a lot of phone calls, and with the volume she talks at, it's been hard not to listen in."

Solwen wasn't the only one who eavesdropped on a parent, then…

Henris beckoned them even closer. "Thenwis is going to lodge her petition tomorrow," she whispered.

"She has to publish it in the paper first," Elisend—a stickler for the rules—said.

"Fifty bucks says it'll be in The Times tomorrow," Solwen said. She looked to Henris. "And another fifty says your mum presents it in the Hall before the end of the week." Someone would have to second the Countess's formal request to speak to the Hall on the matter—was that where Elisend's father was going to come in?

Grim-faced, Henris nodded. "I hope you won't be offended, but I'd rather not take that bet."

"She's not wasting any time, is she?" Elisend murmured. "Thenwis, I mean."

"She didn't expect to have to wait six weeks while we had an election. She'll have been ready for this since the end of April. And she strikes me as being the determined type."

"What do you think will happen?" Henris asked. "With the petition, I mean?"

Solwen sighed. "Do you want the honest answer, or the diplomatic one?"

"Don't ask for the diplomatic one," Elisend said to Henris, pleading. "She's a Marcher. It won't even be that diplomatic."

"I think I'd like the honest one for a change. Because I'm really tired of listening to lies."

Even with that permission, Solwen still chose her next words with care. Henris might not be a foe, but that didn't mean she was in the 'friend' column. "Henris, I'll apologize if this is too blunt, but when it comes to Thenwis Colafell's petition, I think your mother is fooling herself."

"You don't think the Hall will vote to approve whatever she presents?" Henris asked.

"I don't, no," Solwen said. "And we haven't seen what Thenwis is aiming for yet, so we have to make some basic assumptions, but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess she'll ask for her succession rights to be restored." She threw back the rest of the Fizz, feeling a pleasantly warm buzz settling in. "The Hall can vote to approve that request all it wants. And so can the House, for that matter. But it'll be a completely empty gesture. For it to mean anything, for her to _actually_ have a place in the Line of Succession, the government would need to alter the law that regulates it."

"And that would need an amendment to the Constitution," Elisend pointed out.

"And that would need a referendum," Solwen added. "Plus, another vote in both the Hall and the House. And potentially, a Supreme Court ruling. And there's no way in _hell_ we're going to go to all that trouble, just because one person feels offended by something that happened to her grandmother fifty years before she was even born."

"It does seem a little unfair," Henris said. "What happened to Thenwis's grandmother, I mean."

"Of course it does," Solwen said. " But a lot of things in life aren't fair. Homelessness isn't fair. Unemployment isn't fair. Domestic abuse isn't fair. Tax loopholes aren't fair." The government's historic neglect of the March wasn't fair. "I'd much rather Harbrand spend her time dealing with the country's serious problems than one person's pointless, what-if, personal wish fulfillment petition."

Elisend's tone was desert-dry. "Don't hold back, Solly. Let us know what you _really_ think."

Solwen held up a hand. "I have nothing against Thenwis on a personal level. I've never even met her. But she's spending all this time and money, spending all this _government_ time and money on something that's ultimately going to be a complete waste of time. Even if she could persuade the PM to give her petition attention, or if she could find an MP daft enough to present it to the House as a private matter, even if both the Hall and the House voted to approve it, it still wouldn't mean a damn anything unless the government formally modified the succession."

"Why do I get the feeling you've thought about this a lot?" asked Elisend wryly.

Solwen snorted. "More than Thenwis has it seems." And apparently, more than Henris's mother had. Which struck her as strange. The Countess wasn't known to be one for lost causes any more than the Earl of Camelor was. If she'd done her homework, she would know she'd pinned her pennant to the wrong horse.

But maybe, for the Countess, this wasn't about supporting a cause. Maybe she was just trying to hurt the King however she could—her revenge for him refusing to marry her eldest daughter. Maybe it was just a right royal case of hell having no fury like a matchmaking Landed mother scorned.

"If the Hall and the House are both back in session tomorrow, that means the King's audiences with the Prime Minister will resume, doesn't it?" Elisend said.

Solwen nodded. "Don't quote me on it, but I think he usually meets her on Tuesdays." She could check with him at their get-together.

"What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall in his reception room when he meets her this week."

"You think they'll talk about the petition?" Henris said.

A fair assumption to make, but Solwen couldn't see how he legally could. "He's not supposed to comment on political matters, so he'd have to tread carefully. He couldn't just come out and ask her to kill the petition for him. That could be viewed as interfering with political matters, which would violate the Crown Neutrality Clause in the Constitution."

Henris whispered, "Someone should warn him the petition is coming."

"He'll find out soon enough," Elisend said. "And it's not as if any of us have a direct line to the Meduseld Palace. We can't just pick up the phone and call him."

Solwen thought of her call. But it had only been a call about brunch. That didn't exactly put her in the King's inner circle. And in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't really make much difference—the King would simply find out what was going on a day earlier than he otherwise would.

"Elfhelm could call him," Henris said, turning enough to point at the man in question.

"Yes, but he'd accidentally tell everyone else as well," Elisend said. "He's well-intentioned, but he blabs like nobody else on the planet." She turned to Solwen. "I love him, really, he's an absolutely wonderful man, but do not _ever_ tell him your secrets. They'll be all over Edoras by the end of the week."

"And I'm not sure your mother would thank you if we did," Solwen added, filing Elisend's advice away for later. "Tell the King, I mean."

Henris threw back the rest of her drink. "Between you two ladies and me, my mother can kiss my tanned arse for me."

A reassuring statement, and one that gave Solwen the guts to ask a question she was desperate to ask. "Henris, can I ask what you might consider a rather impertinent question?"

"Uh oh," said Elisend.

Henris nodded. "Of course."

Again, Solwen worded her question with care. "Are you aware, some people believe, your mother is only helping Thenwis because she's angry with the King?"

Henris smirked. "You mean, because he's so far refused to consider marrying me or either of my younger sisters?"

"Yes."

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"I'm curious, are you offended by it?"

"In what way?"

"In the King not wanting to marry you way."

"Not at all," Henris said. "I'm ten years younger than him, and he barely knows me. Why on earth would he want to marry me?"

"Maybe because you're the smart, attractive, eldest daughter of a high-ranking Landed house?" Solwen pointed out. Although, the annoying mother was a serious hindrance—even more of a disadvantage than her own embarrassing family links.

Henris smiled. "You're very sweet. But the high-ranking part, it doesn't really mean anything now, does it? We're moving past the time where people marry for dynastic or political reasons. The King might end up marrying an earl's daughter, but if he does, it'll be because he loves her, not because she's an earl's daughter. He could just as easily end up marrying a commoner."

"Heaven forfend," Elisend murmured.

"Would be the end of civilization as we know it, wouldn't it?" Solwen said, grinning.

"And I think you're forgetting one thing," Henris said.

"What's that?"

"We're _all_ the smart, attractive, eldest daughters of high-ranking Landed houses. If that's what the King was looking for, he'd be as likely to marry one of you two as me. More likely, I think. You're both a bit older, and if he married one of you two, he wouldn't have the mother-in-law from hell."

Elisend sighed as she sipped on her Fizz. "Your mother _would_ make life difficult for him, wouldn't she?"

"Ellie, between Henris's mother, your brother's wife and my father, _all_ of our families would find ways to make life difficult for him," Solwen said. "Nobody's winning any virtue points there. Trust me."

"Speaking of virtue," Elisend said, her gaze moving to something over Solwen's shoulder.

Solwen turned to see Elfhelm walking towards them, with his sister Cenefer trailing a few steps behind, typing furiously into her phone. Solwen was glad for the interruption—all this talk of who the King might or might not marry was making her nervous about Tuesday night. She wanted to enjoy the occasion, not sit there and constantly wonder if he was running her through some kind of mental list, ticking his boxes one by one.

As Elfhelm arrived, he blessed them with an insouciant grin. "Ladies, good morning."

Sighing, Cenefer put her phone away and rushed forward to join them. She flashed a smile around the group—the same charming, bright-eyed smile as her brother. "Hi, sorry, just had to deal with something from work," Cenefer said. She smiled again. "How is everyone today?"

"We're all very well, thank you for asking," Elisend said, taking the lead as the siblings' cousin and the receiving group's host family member, as etiquette required. "How are you two?" she asked looking from Elfhelm to his sister.

Cenefer answered. "He's fine, but I'm about ready to strangle my boss." She smirked. "But nothing really new there."

Not everyone knew everyone else, so introductions were in order. Elisend turned to Henris first, as was entirely proper, since the Keveleoks held the older earldom. "You know Lady Henris, I believe?"

Elfhelm nodded. "We certainly do."

Elisend turned Solwen's way. "And this is Lady Solwen, the Earl of Hamelmark's daughter." The full, formal introduction, but as far as Elisend knew, she and the Elgolls had never met. Which was strange, in hindsight, given the Elgolls were Elisend's cousins. Then again, Elisend had never met her cousins either.

"Lady Solwen," said Elfhelm, grinning as he dipped his head. "What an _utter_ delight to see you again."

"Oh, so you two know each other?" Elisend said, brows rising slightly.

"His Lordship is being a little facetious," Solwen explained. "We've met once, for maybe all of ten minutes. A mutual acquaintance introduced us." Which, technically, wasn't a lie.

"To be fair, it was an extremely memorable ten minutes," said Elfhelm, making Cenefer roll her eyes.

And speaking of Cenefer…

"Did everything work out okay with your house?" Solwen said to Cenefer, showing her most innocent smile. "When you locked yourself out, I mean."

Cenefer blinked. "Sorry?"

"It's just, the day our mutual acquaintance introduced us, His Lordship had to rush off. Told us you were locked out of your house, and he had your spare key." She turned the innocent smile on Elfhelm. "That was it, right? You had the spare key. It all happened so quickly, I don't really remember."

"That makes two of us," Cenefer said. "Because I have no idea what you're talking about."

Elfhelm waved the matter off. "It wasn't Cenefer. You must have misheard me. It was somebody else. A friend from school."

"Of course. Forgive me. My mistake," Solwen said. He could think on his feet; she would give him that.

His Lordship smiled in a way that warned her payback was coming. "And tell me, did you enjoy the lunch you were heading to?"

"I certainly did."

Sighing, Elisend waved a hand. "Okay, sorry, am I missing something here?"

"Not at all, no," Solwen said. "When I met Lord Elfhelm, I was on my way to have lunch with someone." A tiny fudge of the truth, but not an out-and-out lie.

"Male or female?" Cenefer asked.

"Male, as it happened." 

Henris's eyes lit up. "Anyone we would know?"

Oh, boy. Would they _ever_. "Maybe."

"Was he interesting?" Elisend asked.

Solwen looked Elfhelm dead in the eye. " _Reasonably_ interesting, yes."

" _Reasonably_ interesting enough that you might want to have lunch with him again?" Elfhelm asked, looking her dead in the eye right back.

Such a cheeky, conniving fucker; she _had_ to introduce him to Erland.

"Not sure," Solwen said. "He asked me to have brunch with him this morning, as it happens. I had to tell him I had other plans."

"I'm sure he was disappointed to hear that."

"I'm sure he was, yes." Her smile was polite. "But not to worry. He called me back later, asked me to have drinks with him on Tuesday instead."

"And did you accept?"

"I most certainly did."

A sly grin spread on Elfhelm's face. "Well, that's quite marvellous, now, isn't it?"

Elisend huffed. "Okay, I feel like I'm listening to people speaking in code." She pointed from Solwen to Elfhelm. "So, either the two of you tell us what you're really discussing, or you stop with all this cryptic bullshit."

" _Thank_ you," Cenefer muttered. "Was beginning to think it was just me."

"Ellie, are you _sure_ you're not from the March?" Solwen said.

"Just because we Romengars don't usually speak as bluntly and plainly as you Hamelmarks do doesn't mean we don't know how."

"We're not talking in code, I promise."

"You didn't tell me about the guy you had lunch with," Elisend said, accusing. " _Or_ that you're having drinks with him on Tuesday."

"That's because I haven't decided if he's worth telling you about yet."

"So, who was he, then?"

Elfhelm tutted and shook his head. "Now, now, Ellie. Let the lady keep her secrets for now." He sent a warning smile in Solwen's direction.

Message received and understood—for the time being, she should keep her meetings with the King to herself. A message she was more than happy to hear.

Sighing, Elisend gestured for Solwen to give up her glass. "Let me go and get some refills."

"Just no gin this time, please," Solwen said, handing her glass over. "If I have any more, I'll end up falling asleep on your lawn."

"Who's putting bloody gin in the drinks?" Elfhelm demanded.

She pointed at Elisend. "Lady Lush here."

He finished what was left of his Fizz, held out his now-empty glass. "If you're refilling, I'll have one _with_ gin, thank you."

"Hennie, grab his," said Elisend to Henris, pointing at Elfhelm's glass. "Bring your own, come give me a hand." She looked to Cenefer, who was empty-handed. "You want one as well?"

Cenefer nodded. "Grab one for me? Without gin, please. I'll be back in a few, need to find the bathroom."

Elisend and Henris vanished in one direction, Cenefer in another.

As soon as they were alone, Solwen turned to Elfhelm. "I'm not sure I appreciate being set up."

He rolled his eyes. "All I did was arrange it so the two of you could have lunch together. It's not like I framed you for a triple murder."

"That's not the point."

"You _do_ realize, every other woman in this room would probably walk through fire to have lunch with him?"

"It's not that I didn't enjoy the lunch. I did, very much. So, I'm not ungrateful. I'm just annoyed." At how unsubtle he'd been, if nothing else. "And I honestly expected better."

"You barely know me, but somehow, you're already disappointed in me?"

"Not in _you_." But that might still come in time. "Just in your lying skills. Locked herself out of the house," she repeated. "Is that _really_ the best you could do?"

"I only had a few minutes. I couldn't think of anything else. And it got the job done, didn't it?"

She couldn't dispute him there. "It did, yes. Just try to come up with something more convincing next time, please?"

"Speaking of next time," he started with another of his sly grins. "I assume you're going to his place on Tuesday? For your drinks, I mean?"

"That's the plan, yes." And really the only possible solution. They couldn't just go to a bar in town, and given how nosy her family was, she would rather die old and alone than invite him to her place instead.

"I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. It's very romantic, you know. The terrace, at night."

"I can imagine."

He smirked. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do on a first date."

She was about to say—that probably wouldn't be much—until she remembered her own less-than-stellar record in that regard. "I'll be a paragon of virtue, I promise."

"I wouldn't go that far. Have _some_ fun, please."

She would love to know—what was 'some fun' in Elfhelm of Elgoll's books…

They fell silent as Elisend and Henris returned, carrying six glasses of Folca's Fizz between them. Henris handed one to Elfhelm, Elisend handed one to her. Cenefer reappeared, claiming the remaining gin-free glass from her cousin.

"Who's your other glass for?" Solwen said, pointing at the two flutes Henris was holding.

"Me," Henris said. She drained one glass, turned to set it on a table behind her, started to raise the other.

Elfhelm's hand shot out. "Easy does it," he murmured, laying his fingers on Henris's wrist, forcing her to bring the glass down. "Plenty of time to enjoy a few drinks. Pace yourself."

"I don't want to pace myself," Henris said. "I've decided I'm going to get drunk." She frowned. "Actually, not drunk, no. I've decided I'm going to get totally, utterly, fucking _hammered_."

Elisend raised a startled brow at Solwen. Edoras, we have a problem…

"Henris, is something wrong?" Cenefer asked.

Henris barked a sharp laugh. "You could probably say that, yes." She looked around, searching, gestured at the doors that led outside. "Can we go into the garden? I think I need to talk about it before I go mad, but I don't want to talk about it in here."

She wanted to get steaming drunk. And she wanted to tell them something without other people listening in. Serious shit was about to go down.

They moved outside, regrouping under one of the apple trees at the end of the lawn. "What's wrong?" Elisend said, laying a comforting hand on Henris's shoulder. "Is it something to do with your mum?"

By way of an answer, Henris threw back the rest of her drink—her third in maybe twenty minutes. There had probably been a full ounce of gin in each one—she was well on her way to her 'fucking hammered' objective.

Cenefer stepped in. "Henris, if something is troubling you, we're all here to help," she said in the calmest and gentlest tone Solwen had ever heard—as if she was speaking to a wounded child. Which, in some ways, she probably was. Keveleok must be an absolute _bitch_ to have as a mother.

Henris took a racking breath. "Remember earlier, when we talked about Thenwis's petition?"

"What about it?" asked Elfhelm, the startled one now. "Is something happening with it?"

Solwen nodded. "Henris thinks it's going to be in The Times tomorrow. And that her mum's going to present it in the Hall this week."

"She won't get anywhere without a co-sponsor," Cenefer said.

Elisend sighed. "Yeah, I think that's maybe where my dad will come in."

So, she'd joined the dots as well, then. Good.

"But it's _pointless_ ," Elfhelm said. "The petition, I mean. Whatever the Hall votes for, it's an empty gesture without the associated legal changes. And there's no way they'll ever be made."

Solwen sipped her drink. "We covered that, yes."

"She's asking for more than that," Henris blurted.

Silence; four pairs of eyes turned Henris's way.

Elfhelm broke the moment. "What else is she going to ask for?"

"It's not just about her succession rights." Henris took another deep breath, summoning every last ounce of courage she had. "She's going to challenge the King's accession as well. She's going to ask the Hall to overturn her grandmother's exclusion, then acknowledge her grandmother as Theoden's rightful heir, on the basis Thengwen was his oldest sister."

Silence again. Stunned this time.

"Are you _fucking kidding me_?" Cenefer said, verbalizing the sentiment Solwen was sure everyone shared.

Henris nodded. "I heard mum talking about it. She's not just angry at the King. She's trying to destroy him."

"Fuck me," Solwen muttered. She looked to Elfhelm. "You need to tell him. The King, I mean. He needs to know what's coming tomorrow. He'll have no idea. She's going to completely blindside him." Her heart was racing; she wasn't sure why. She'd had lunch with the King once, had arranged to have drinks with him on Tuesday, but it wasn't her job to worry about or take care of him. The petition was really none of her business. Why the hell did she suddenly feel so concerned?

"I'm sorry," Henris almost sobbed. "I probably shouldn't have told you all this. It's just been really stressful, listening to mum, realizing what she's trying to do."

Elisend slipped her arm around Henris's shoulder. "It's okay. You haven't done anything wrong. We're glad you told us."

Grimacing, Henris groaned and held her stomach. "I don't feel very well. I think I might need to be sick."

With all the gin she'd just drunk, no bloody wonder…

"Why don't we take you inside, get you a nice, cool glass of water, sit down for a while near a bathroom, just in case?" said Elisend, steering Henris towards the house. As they left, Elisend shot a look at Elfhelm over her shoulder and raised her hand to the side of her face to make the phone call gesture.

Elfhelm nodded, catching what his cousin meant. "Right, yes. You ladies stay here. I need to make a phone call." He strode away, looking for somewhere private to talk, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

Solwen sipped on her drink, wondering what the fuck to talk about now. She didn't know Cenefer Elgoll from Beor. She remembered something Elisend had told her—something party-safe and easy. "Lady Cenefer, am I correct in thinking you're a lawyer?" she said.

Cenefer smiled. "A barrister, actually."

"Apologies. I'm not overly familiar with the legal profession." Solwen smiled. "We're all money people in my family. No legal people at all."

"It's quite alright. It's an easy mix-up to make."

"So, what is it a barrister actually does?"

"In the simplest terms, a barrister is authorized to represent legal suits in Court."

"Oh, so, you get up and talk in front of a judge, then?" Which sounded like a form of torture to Solwen, but she'd never been much of a public speaker.

Cenefer nodded. "Sometimes for the defence, sometimes for the prosecution. It varies from case to case."

"That must be quite challenging."

"It can be, yes." She smiled again. "But I love it. When you win a case, or establish a new legal ruling, there's honestly no better feeling in the world."

That reminded Solwen of the comment she'd made to the King—about how finding somebody's missing money was sometimes better than sex. "And what kind of law do you specialize in? If that's even a valid question."

"Perfectly valid. I practise Civil Law. And I'm trying to focus on Contract Law in particular."

Solwen knew she shouldn't, but she had to ask. "So, um, I'd love to know, what do you think of what Thenwis is doing?"

"In what sense?"

"In the sense of, is it even allowed? Can she legally ask for what she's asking for?"

Cenefer nodded. "She certainly can. You have to remember, anyone can petition the Hall of Lords or the House of Commons for whatever they want. To have Mondays banned. To make _The Horse Song_ the national anthem. To have beer come out of fountains. But asking and getting are two different things." She raised her glass to finish her drink. "It's why the weird stuff always starts in the Hall. Everyone knows the Lords don't need to worry about being re-elected, so they're more likely to listen to frivolous or ridiculous things."

"Whereas if they go to the House, they'll just be shown to the door, because MPs know their constituents won't want them wasting time on it." And rightly so, in Solwen's opinion. Even the unelected Lords should know better.

"Exactly."

"And it _is_ frivolous, isn't it?" Solwen asked. "Thenwis asking to be named as Theoden's successor, I mean?" Or, rather, her grandmother, but given Thengwen's age, the outcome would be the same.

Cenefer turned her hand back and forth. "To some extent, yes, because whether he's Theoden's rightful heir or not, Eomer is already the King."

"Possession is nine tenths of the law."

"I don't usually approve of that saying, contractual ownership tends to be far more complicated than that, but in this case, it's a valid point, yes. Eomer was formally crowned, and he's been on the throne for eight years, so he's legally our King, whether Thenwis likes it or not."

"And inertia is a powerful thing," Solwen pointed out. "A lot of people aren't good with change." Especially when the change wouldn't really impact their lives. Making Thenwis Queen wouldn't magically solve the kingdom's problems. The unemployed still wouldn't have jobs, the poor still wouldn't have money, the homeless still wouldn't have a roof over their heads.

"You know what else is a powerful thing, though?" Cenefer asked.

"What?"

"Stupidity." Cenefer leaned over to set her glass on the ground. "If there's one thing I've learned from being a barrister, it's to never, _ever_ underestimate how idiotic some people can be. Especially in groups or crowds. Nothing knocks twenty points off someone's IQ quite as much as being in a herd."

And the Hall of Lords was the most privileged herd in the kingdom. "You think the Hall might actually vote to approve her petition? To recognize her as Theoden's rightful successor?"

"I honestly don't know. I'd like to think it wouldn't, but then I remember what kind of people will vote on the matter."

Solwen snorted. "Like the Earl of Hereoch, you mean?"

"He's a good man, really. A kind, generous, caring man. He always means well."

"But dumber than a bag of rocks."

"Unfortunately, he's not the only one. And remember, the Hall's much smaller than the House. At the end of the day, Thenwis only has to persuade sixty-two people to support her. That's not really a lot. If she pitches it right, milks the fairness argument as much as she can, she could sway a lot of people."

"I assume your dad won't vote to support her?"

"Absolutely not a chance," was Cenefer's vehement response. "The King has been Elfhelm's best friend for twenty-two years. He's stuck with Elf through thick and thin, and he's been in our house more times than we would all care to remember. He's almost like family to us."

Was it Solwen's imagination, or was there the teeniest, tiniest hint of boasting in Cenefer's voice?

Cenefer gestured at her. "What about yours? How do you think your dad will vote?"

That was an interesting question. "I honestly don't know," Solwen said.

Cenefer smirked. "You Hamelmarks have never been the monarchy's most loyal subjects."

In a flash, Solwen's hackles kicked in. She wouldn't mind so much, being accused of being disloyal, if that's what her family actually was. Would it kill the people who said shit like this to do a little bit of homework first? "It's not that we're not loyal. We just understand that loyalty's supposed to run both ways. If the people pledge to serve the King, the King should pledge to serve the people as well. The authority he wields, as sovereign and Head of State, he draws that authority from us. He's only our King because we allow him to be our King, because we give our collective consent for him to govern."

"Lady Solwen, you do realize, if you ever said something like that in Gondor, the Lord Steward would probably have you hanged?"

Her hackles developed their own set of hackles. "Bloody good thing I'm from Isendale, then, isn't it?"

"You Marchers." Cenefer sighed and shook her head. "I swear, one of you could pick an argument in an empty room."

"But the argument would _still_ be worth picking."

Cenefer fell silent, studying her, smiling slightly, as if she was trying to weigh Solwen's worth.

It was like Thelden Camelor all over again; she wanted to wipe that judging, stupid smile right off Her Precious Ladyship's face.

Thankfully, this was the moment Elfhelm chose to return. He looked slightly harried. "I called the King, but he's not picking up."

"He's probably out on engagements," Solwen said, remembering what the King had told her about his schedule for today.

"Yes, except I tried Eowyn and Colwenna as well. Can't get an answer from them either." He sighed. "Don't know what the bloody hell they're all doing. It's like they've all fallen off the face of the earth."

"I'm sure it's fine," Cenefer said. "They're all extremely busy people. They don't just exist to answer your phone calls, you know."

"I left a message for all of them, told them I need to speak to the King as soon as I can." He flapped his hands. "I'll just have to wait until one of them answers. Not really much more I can do."

"What about Fenbrand?" Solwen said. "You could always tell him."

Elfhelm shuddered. "Bema, no. Not a chance in _hell_ I'm calling him. Every time we talk, I come away the conversation feeling as if I need a shower."

"He's a little bit unctuous," Cenefer explained.

"I've heard that, yes."

Elisend's mother stepped into the garden and quickly made her way towards them. She smiled warmly at Cenefer and Elfhelm, gave Solwen the bare minimum of acknowledging nods. "We're just about to serve lunch, if you'd like to come inside." She made it sound like a request, but they all knew it was really an order. One did not go out to get pissed in the garden while a baby's naming day lunch was being served. No matter how much one might wish to.

They headed into the house, Cenefer walking ahead with her aunt, Solwen walking with Elfhelm behind.

"It's a good thing you're seeing our mutual acquaintance on Tuesday night," he leaned over to murmur.

"Why's that?"

"Because the week he's about to have, he's going to need some pleasant distractions."

Was that what she was? A pleasant distraction? Something pretty to occupy the King's time, relieve the many strains and stresses of his regally demanding position? She bloody well hoped not. And she didn't think so—it certainly wasn't the vibe she'd gotten so far.

But Tuesday would answer that question for her.

Bema, was he glad that naming day party was done.

Elfhelm had never been much of a fan of the mother. Never would be either, based on her behaviour today. Motherhood hadn't mellowed Theonara so far, he wasn't holding out much hope she would wake up one morning and magically not be an utter bitch. But Gamulf was both a cousin and a good friend, so he would stay in touch for his sake, at least.

He pulled out his phone to check his messages. Still nothing from anyone at the Palace, by either phone call or text. It wasn't like them to be so unresponsive. It was coming up on three o'clock; what in the seven hells was everyone doing?

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind them. "Mum and dad have decided to stay on for dinner," Cenefer said, waving him to their car. "Just the two of us for now. Herrick will come back for them later."

"You don't want to stay on as well?"

She ground to a halt, raising those barrister brows. "Why the fuck would I want to do that?"

"Just thought you might want to spend some more time with Theonara."

"Do _you_ want to spend some more time with Theonara?"

"I think I'd rather shave my own balls."

She snorted. "You'll understand if I'd rather just get on the road, then."

A short way down the driveway, Solwen Hamelmark walked to a car. She looked their way; Elfhelm raised a hand to wave goodbye. She smiled and dipped her head at them as she climbed into her seat. A few moments later, her car pulled out and sped away.

"Interesting one, that," Cenefer said, gesturing at the departing vehicle.

"Who, Lady Solwen?"

"Her, yes." Cenefer grinned. "When you were away making your phone call, we talked about a few things. It was a rather enlightening conversation."

"How so?"

"She's smart. Really knows her political stuff. But she's got an emotional switch that's almost insultingly easy to flick."

Elfhelm sighed; not her provoking people bullshit again. "What did you say this time?"

"I can't remember the precise words I used, but I _might_ have implied the Hamelmarks weren't the most loyal of the Landed Houses."

And wasn't that just _fucking_ great? His only sibling trying to pick fights with the woman his best friend in the whole world—a best friend who was also the King—might be about to start dating? He needed this like he needed a sexually transmitted disease. "I really wish you wouldn't do that, you know. It's not at all helpful."

"You should've seen her. I could practically hear her hackles kicking in. She went from perfectly calm to imminent murder in less than a second. If you hadn't come back when you did, I think she might have broken my face in half."

"Given what you said, I'm not sure I would have blamed her."

"It's kind of true, though. You know as well as I do, they're not the most supportive of Houses."

"Not supportive doesn't mean they're not loyal. And they're from the March. They just show their loyalty in a different way."

"Yes, that's more or less what she said." She frowned. "And sorry, but when did you become the Hamelmark Defense Squad?"

"I didn't. I just don't think you should go picking fights with her." For his own welfare, if nothing else—he didn't want to get caught in the middle. "Bema knows the Houses are all picking enough fights with each other right now as it is," he added, thinking about Thenwis again. He still couldn't believe what she and Keveleok were doing. The sheer _nerve_ , thinking they could dethrone a King.

"If you were straight, I'd wonder if you were sleeping with her."

"Cennie, I give you my word, there's absolutely no chance of that."

Footsteps again; he turned to see their father this time, walking briskly towards them. Jogging, almost.

"Something wrong?" Elfhelm called out as his father approached.

Grim-faced, his father nodded. "It's the King. It was just on the news."

"What was just on the news?" Elfhelm said, panic surging. "Bema, dad, he isn't _dead_ , is he?"

"Not dead, Eru, no. But he crashed his motorbike this morning."

This would explain why nobody from the Palace had called him—they would all be dealing with much bigger problems. "Is he alright?"

"They didn't say. We don't have any details at all, except that he's alive, and his life's not in any danger."

Elfhelm turned to jog to his car, signalling to the driver to start her up.

"Where the hell are you going?" his dad called out.

"I need to get back to Edoras."

"You won't be able to see him. He's still in the hospital. They won't let you in."

"I'll wait for him at the Palace, then." Until dawn tomorrow if he had to.

His best friend was hurt. It was his job to be there for him.


	51. Chapter 51

Later, back at the house, the long drive home from the party behind her, Solwen went in search of her dad.

She found him on his own on the terrace, sprawled in a comfortable outdoor chair, a bottle of Aldburg Black in one hand, a dog-eared paperback book in the other.

He looked up as she stepped through the door. "Hey. Was wondering when you'd be home. How was the baby naming party?" he said.

"Fine." She had been going to tell him 'the usual', but given Henris's revelations, she wasn't entirely sure that description applied. She couldn't think of another naming party she'd been to where somebody had gotten drunk and let her in on a potential constitutional crisis. "We ate, we drank, we took some photos, we named a baby," she said.

"And what did they name the little lad?"

"Stefon."

"Stefon Romengar," he murmured. " I like it. That works quite well." He grinned. "And did anyone get into a fight?"

"Sadly, no fistfights, no." Her 'moment' with Cenefer Elgoll didn't count. "It was all extremely refined. I think it's just our family where that happens."

"Was it busy?"

She flopped into the other chair, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her legs. "Almost a hundred people, Elisend said."

"That many? Really?"

"It seemed like an awful lot to me. Especially for a second child."

"Yeah, I mean, they're all pretty worthless, aren't they?" he drawled. "Second children, that is. From a dynastic perspective, at least."

Back to the good old 'surplus offspring' gag again; he really needed to get some new jokes. "Before you complain _too_ much about how worthless I am, you should remember your precious firstborn child won't be terribly helpful from a dynastic perspective, either." Unless Erland could figure out how to make a kid with another man…

"True." He stuck a bookmark into his book and set it aside. "But you were born _before_ the King's reforms, so the earldom will go to Astalor before it goes to you, remember?"

"I'm doubly worthless, then."

"A second child, _and_ a girl. Should just have bloody drowned you."

She suppressed the urge to throw a shoe at him. "Anyone ever tell you, what a _wonderful_ , loving father you are?"

"You might have mentioned it a few times, yes."

"I must have been drunk."

He grinned. "Solly, sweet pea, in this house, when are we _not_?"

Oh, how they joked on the way to the liver replacement clinic. "Tell you what, though. I'll take you and your threats to drown me over the Earl of Romengar's bullshit any day of the week."

"Jothren's still a bit of an arsehole, then?"

"You should hear how he speaks to Elisend. It's _disgusting_. You joke about me being worthless, but he's deadly serious about it. He treats her like she's some kind of useless dead weight, just because she's a third child and a daughter." One comment in particular had made her want to punch the man in the balls, but it wouldn't have done for her to assault her best friend's father at his grandson's naming ceremony. Not with her record, at least. If she didn't have the Thelden incident under her belt, she might have said 'fuck it' and taken a swing.

"He's always been like that," he said. "Full of all the stupid, bullshit, old-fashioned ideas about what being an earl means."

"Okay, but what _does_ being an earl mean?"

"These days? Absolutely sod all, in my opinion."

"You get to sit and vote in the Hall." Not an unimportant job, given the Hall was one half of the country's legislature.

"But not for very much longer, I think."

"You think there's some kind of revolution brewing?" she asked, alarming prickling the back of her neck.

"Not at all, no." He took a swig of his beer. "We're long past the time when we do stuff like that. We're a law-abiding nation now. But we've pushed through a whole bunch of legal and judicial reforms since King Eomer came to the throne, many at his urging, I'll add, and I think we should be ready for more."

"You think people will want to reform the Hall?"

"If you were a regular Rohanese person, wouldn't you?" He tapped his own chest. "Why the hell should I get to decide which proposals will or won't become law just because of who my mother was? And just because I was born my mother's oldest son? How on earth is that democratic?"

"That poll in the Times a wee while ago showed there isn't much support for a republic."

"There isn't, no. But that's because the monarchy has already been neutered, so nobody has a problem with it. The King still has influence, mostly cultural and social, but he doesn't really have any power."

"He still has all his reserve and prerogative powers." And technically, he was still allowed to drag someone into the street and have them beheaded. What she wouldn't sometimes give to be allowed to do that herself. She should ask him, on Tuesday, who he would have killed first, if the government ever gave him a free pass on the matter.

"In theory, yes. But you know as well as I do, he only exercises those powers at the government's behest. He ever tries to exercise them on his own without an extremely good reason, he'll be out on his arse by the end of the week. The only reason he's allowed to hold them in the first place is that somebody has to, and it makes more sense for that person to be a completely neutral party."

"But the Hall's another matter," she said.

"Completely. The King is a symbol of the State, and of the unity of the Rohanese people. The only thing the Hall of Lords is a symbol of is outdated hereditary privilege. There's nothing remotely unifying about it."

She massaged the sides of her head, feeling a pounding headache coming on. It was probably the gin, but the civics lesson wasn't helping. "If I'd known I was going to come home to a political discussion, I might have stayed in Romengar, offered to look after the baby for the rest of the night."

"You were the one who asked what being an earl meant, sweet pea. You know the rules. If you don't want the answer, don't ask the question."

"Does it trouble you? The prospect of getting rid of the Hall, I mean?"

"Not really. Running the country's a serious business, best done by serious, qualified people." He wrinkled his nose, like he'd just gotten a whiff of something rotten. "Not chinless arseholes like Elisend Romengar's father."

"Pretty sure there are plenty of chinless arseholes in the House of Commons as well."

"Course there are. Difference is, we can vote those arseholes out of office. You can't get rid of an earl without committing murder."

"You can have them barred for bad behaviour."

"They have to fuck up really badly for that to be a permanent option. Try to murder the King. Burn down the Hall. Incite an armed rebellion against the government." He shrugged. "You know, that kind of thing."

"It's not enough to just tell someone they're dumber than shit? Or that they should shove their opinion up their arse? Or ask them what their parents did to deserve having them as a child?"

He grinned, knowing exactly why she was using those examples. "Sadly, that'll only get you suspended for a few days."

"And speaking of people messing up badly, would you like to know what _fantastic_ idea Jothren Romengar has had now?"

"Is it going to make me want to hit him in the face with a chair?"

"It's highly likely, yes."

He heaved the mother of all weary sighs. "Go on, then. Amaze me."

"He's decided to throw in his lot with the Countess of Keveleok."

"Bema," he muttered. "Just when I thought he couldn't get any more stupid."

"He thinks the Countess's support for Thenwis Colafell's petition is going to be a big winner for her."

"You mean the petition Thenwis is publishing in The Edoras Times tomorrow?" he said, with an almost triumphant gleam in his eye.

She heaved a weary sigh of her own—so much for her big surprise. "Does everyone in Rohan already know about this bloody petition? Is it, like, an open secret, or something?"

He frowned. "Okay, sorry, are you telling me you know it's coming as well?"

She nodded. "Found out today at the party. Was coming home to tell you. You just ruined my big reveal."

"Sorry," he said, looking sheepish. "But to answer your question, they don't, and it isn't. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"You knew."

"Kiddo, when you've been playing this game as long as I have, you get to be pretty good at digging up people's secrets. _And_ at digging them up before anyone else."

"You still ruined my big reveal," she huffed. "I was all excited, thought I was coming here to tell you something you didn't know."

"If it makes you feel better, I'm extremely impressed. Not just any earl's daughter who could come home from a day out with information like that in her back pocket. How did you even find out?" He frowned as he swirled his beer. "You didn't go eavesdropping on people at the party, did you?" Quickly, he added, "I mean, not that I would care if you did. It's just considered rather poor form."

And he would know—'poor form' was almost his specialty subject. "Would you believe, Henris Keveleok told us?"

"Us?"

"Elisend and me." Best not to mention the Elgoll siblings for now. "And Bema, what she told us, about what the petition's going to address?" She let out a low whistle. "Thenwis has balls, I'll give her that."

He bolted upright in his chair. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me, you know what the _contents_ of the petition are?"

"Well… yes. Do you not?"

"I only know the petition is coming. I don't know what the details are, no."

So, he hadn't ruined her big reveal after all. She shuffled forward in his chair, taking a moment to savour being able to lord it over him for once. "Dad, she's going to challenge the King's accession. She's going to ask the Hall to restore her grandmother's rights, then recognize her as King Theoden's lawful heir."

"Please tell me you're joking," he said, all humour gone, ashen-faced, as serious as a heart attack now.

"I wish I was."

"And Henris Keveleok told you that? Out in the open? At a _baby's naming ceremony_?"

"It was… interesting, yes. I don't think she likes her mother very much. And she certainly doesn't like what her mother is doing. She was really upset." And Henris had never made it back to the lunch. She'd apparently hurled her guts up in the bathroom, then been escorted upstairs to have a lie down.

"Bloody Maiar," her dad muttered. "Makes me glad I never actually tried to drown you."

"Don't worry. If I ever decide I dislike you that much, I'll just pack up my stuff and leave. I won't waste my time trying to destroy you before I go."

"Good to know, thanks," he said drily.

"When do you think the Countess will present the petition to the Hall?"

He sat back in his chair again. "Not sure. I would say Tuesday, because she's never been the type of woman who likes to waste time, and Thenwis is obviously chomping at the bit to get going, but the Countess might wait to see what whispers come out of the King's audience with the Prime Minister first."

"Oh, and he knows about it as well."

"Who, the King?"

She nodded. "Someone is probably filling him in as we speak." She didn't know that for sure, but Elfhelm had to be maybe one of ten people in the whole country who could call the King at any time—surely he would have spoken to his best friend by now?

"Solly, how in Bema's name do you know that?"

She blessed him with an inscrutable smile. "You're not the only member of the family with a talent for tapping into privileged information, it seems."

"Sweet pea, it's moments like this that make me genuinely proud to be your father."

"Unlike all the other moments, when I just embarrass you to the point of disowning me instead."

"You never embarrass me." He shrugged. "I mean, sometimes, maybe, yes. But never to the point where I want to disown you."

"Not even when I punch other people?"

"You only did it once. And it was a bloody good punch. I'd have been more embarrassed if you'd fucked it up and broken your hand instead of his teeth."

"It caused a fair bit of trouble with the Camelors you could probably have done without."

He waved her away. "I wouldn't let that keep you up at night."

"You don't, right?"

Grinning, he asked, "Did your secret source tell you what the King's planning to do?"

"Sadly, they didn't, no."

"His Secretary's probably written up a response already. The King's, I mean."

She remembered their conversation back on the day she'd moved to the house. "Fenbrand, right? Isn't that what you said his name was? The bootlicker?"

"That's right." He finished his beer, leaned over to set the empty bottle on the ground beside him. "It'll be a masterclass in the nuances of political doublespeak. You'll read it, and you won't _quite_ understand what it's saying, but it'll leave you with the vaguely uncomfortable feeling you're kicking the King in his regal balls by even acknowledging the petition exists."

"I'm _so_ glad I'm not a politician. I don't think I could do a job where I had to put up with stuff like that on a daily basis."

"Did you tell Elisend her dad's wasting his time?"

"Not in those precise words, but yes, I did."

"What did she say?"

Solwen shrugged and held up her hands. "What could she say? Her father won't listen to her. She's just a worthless daughter, remember? The future of the earldom's nothing to do with her, so his political decisions are none of her business."

He sighed. "We need to find a nice husband for her."

She felt a wave of irritation. "Okay, can we please _not_ do that?" she said.

"Do what?"

"The whole marriage arranging thing. This is 2020, not 1920. Elisend's a grown woman with her own career and her own apartment. She's perfectly capable of finding her own husband as well. She doesn't need any of us trying to find one for her." She wagged a finger at him. "And just so you know, Erland and I don't need any help finding one either. You parents, you all just need to leave us kids alone and let us figure it out for ourselves."

His lips curled in a teasing grin. "Are you telling me this because you have a new boyfriend?"

"I don't have a new boyfriend."

"That's not what your brother said."

Mother of _fuck_. Two weeks. _Two fucking weeks_ , and the traitorous prick had spilled the beans already. She was never, ever sharing anything him anything _ever_ again. "What the fuck did Erland tell you?"

"Not much. Just that you'd had lunch with some guy you're still trying to decide if you like, and that you're seeing him again for drinks on Tuesday night."

She was going to fucking _murder_ her brother. And in what world did that count as 'not much'?

"But that's all," her father quickly added, perhaps sensing some new sibling violence might be on the cards. "So, you don't need to beat him to death with a rolling pin in his sleep."

She was _still_ going to kill him. Did Erland not remember how sneaky their father could be? The man could piece a whole story together just by hearing three random snippets of information. Had she left any snippets hanging around about her lunch with the King? She didn't think so. Other people knew about it, of course—Brendal, Elfhelm, Colwenna, several guards at the main gate—but it seemed unlikely what they knew would ever work its way back to her dad.

Except, unlikely wasn't the same as never…

She froze. There _was_ one snippet. She rose from her seat to rush into the house, all the way through to the phone desk in the front hall. She pressed the button to run through the list of incoming numbers, looking for the two phone calls on Friday. She found them both, two pages back—the mid-morning call from the King and the dinner time call from Colwenna. To her relief, the source for both showed as UNKNOWN. Her father couldn't figure out who had called her by reverse checking the number, then. Thank fuck. Just to be safe, she pressed and held down the button to clear the whole log. She should probably have cleared it on Friday, but it was what it was.

She returned to the terrace to grab her shoes, but didn't reclaim her seat. "Speaking of sleep, I'm going to change, have a nap before dinner." The gin had eased the pain of the function, but it wasn't doing anything for the pain in her skull. "Was a tiring morning. And a long drive."

"Dinner's at six."

"I'll see you then."

"Solly?" her father called out after her, just as she reached the steps into the house.

"What?" she said, half-turning back.

"This guy you're not sure you like. The one you had lunch with. The one you're seeing on Tuesday night."

Her innards tensed. "What about him?"

"By any chance, does he work for the Meduseld Palace?"

Now, her stomach lurched and roiled. Why the _fuck_ was he asking that? "He doesn't, no," she said. Which she didn't think was really a lie—the King lived at the Palace, sometimes worked in it, but didn't work _for_ it.

"You're sure about that?"

"As sure as I can be, yes."

She didn't ask him why he was asking, but he decided to offer. "It's just, when I checked the log of incoming calls, I saw two on Friday labelled UNKNOWN. Did you know, they only do that for confidential _government_ numbers? And that confidential civilian numbers come up as WITHHELD instead?"

Her heart started to pound. "I didn't, no."

"And one of them was around the time you took that call from the woman whose name was Colwenna." He smiled. "You remember that, right? The call to check the security thing for the King's Midsummer party?"

"Of course I do."

"The other one was earlier, on Friday morning."

For once, she didn't have to think too hard to cover for that. "That was probably Erland's call. The one he took from the Palace for the same issue. Remember?"

"Yeah, except _he_ said they called him the day before."

"He probably just got his days mixed up." Think, think, think. "I mean, did you find another UNKNOWN call the day before?"

"I didn't, no."

She punched a mental victory fist. Ten points to Solwen. "So, that was just his call, then."

"I thought about that." She could almost hear the trap springing. "But then I remembered, Erland said his call was from a woman as well. And _you_ had a call on Friday morning. Hedwin answered, she came to fetch you, remember? And when I spoke to her earlier, she said the caller was a man, but he wouldn't give his name."

He was her dad, and she loved him, but she couldn't do this bullshit anymore. "Dad?"

"What?"

"You really, _really_ need to stop," she said.

"Sorry?"

"You need to _stop_ ," she repeated, feeling her temper beginning to fray. "You need to shut the fuck up, stop asking me all these personal questions, and start minding your own fucking business."

He smiled, trying to be harmless and diplomatic. "Solly, you know I don't mean any harm."

Her temper broke like an overwhelmed dam. "I don't care what you mean! I'm twenty-fucking-eight years old! I'm not a child! Who I date, and when I date them, and how I date them, and where I date them is absolutely none of your fucking business! If I want you to know what I'm doing, _when_ I want you to know, I'll tell you."

"I just want you to be safe, sweet pea," he said softly, brows creasing in paternal concern. "I'm your father. I worry about you."

"I know you do. But this constant wheedling for information, that's nothing to do with keeping me safe. That's everything to do with you being a nosy, interfering prick who won't leave me alone to live my own life!"

He was silent, stunned.

She was on a roll; she couldn't stop now. If she was doing this, she was going to work out _all_ of the grievances she'd been storing up. "You know, it's interesting, how many people assume I lived abroad for eight years because I was trying to avoid apologizing to Thelden Camelor. And it's true. I was. But you want to know what my other reason was?"

"What?"

"Privacy," she snapped. "I wanted to be able to live my own life without you breathing down my neck and watching everything I'm doing." She huffed a laugh. "I mean, I lived in Barad-dûr for eighteen months, and I still felt like I had more privacy there compared to here. Sauron Aleswind's security people have nothing on you."

"Solly, I—"

She raised a hand to cut him off. "Don't talk. Not right now. Because it won't fucking help. I know you don't ever mean anything harmful by it. I know it's just the way you are. That you like to know things. But you have to accept, there are some things you just don't have the right to know."

He sighed. "You're right. There are."

"So, leave this issue well alone," she said. "I don't want to discuss who I'm dating with you yet." And she apparently shouldn't have discussed it with her brother at all. But she would deal with him later. "When I want to talk to you about it, I'll talk to you about it. You understand?"

"I understand," he solemnly said.

"You promise you'll stop prying?"

He nodded. "I promise."

"Good." She turned away again. "I'm going to bed. Leave a dinner plate in the kitchen for me." She couldn't eat with the family tonight—she was too angry to sit at the table and pretend everything was fine.

She stormed into the house and down the hall. She turned at the end to head for the stairs, and walked right into her older brother.

Erland smiled. "Hey, your home. How was the baby naming party?"

"Do _not_ talk to me," she said, raising a finger to him. "I have _nothing_ to say to you right now."

She shoved past him and stormed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She marched down the hall to her room, pushed through the door and slammed it behind her as hard as she could, making some ornaments on a shelf rattle.

The dam burst, the tears came flooding out, in deep, racking, anguished sobs. She _hated_ picking fights with her dad or her brother, even when the fight deserved to be picked.

She gulped air, slowly but surely forcing the seething anger away. She threw her shoes in the cupboard and went to her bathroom to wet a facecloth and wash her face, pressing the soothing coolness into her eyes. Back in her room, she changed into some casual clothes and flopped on her bed, intending to nap, before realizing she was far too wound up now to sleep. She shuffled up to the top of her bed, gathered all her pillows to plump them up in a mound behind her, and grabbed her remote to switch on her TV. A movie would help her relax. Something shitty and undemanding, with giant robots or fighting cars.

She'd left the TV on the news channel. Her heart lurched as she saw the text on the crawling banner at the bottom: KING INJURED IN CRASH.

What the ever-loving fuck?

She grabbed her tablet from her side table to bring up the same news on the web, scrolling through the article, trying to find the information she needed. How had he crashed? Where had he crashed? How badly injured was he? Was he alive, or had he wiped himself out? There wasn't much in the way of information, but a few important words popped out. Motorcycle. Hospitalized. Not in danger. Discharged. Resting comfortably at the Palace.

Motorcycle. Bema. Not the beautiful Firefoot, she hoped…

And what did this mean for Tuesday night? Would it still be a go, or was it just a matter of time before Colwenna called back to cancel? She didn't have Colwenna's number, so it wasn't as if she could take the lead on the issue.

She closed the tablet and turned up the volume on the TV, waiting to see what the segment on the hour would cover.

Could this day _possibly_ get any worse?

Erland found his dad on the terrace, shoulders slumping, rubbing his chin, staring forlornly at the ground. This didn't look good, but it might explain his sister's explosion. "Did something happen with Solly?" he said, gesturing behind him to the front of the house. "I just passed her in the hall, she kind of tore a strip off me."

Duncan sighed. "Yeah, she tore a few strips off me as well. She's pretty pissed."

"Why?"

"Because I asked her a question about this guy she's dating, and she didn't take it well."

Erland groaned; of all the idiot things his dad could have done. "You promised me you wouldn't say anything to her about it."

"And _you_ promised her you wouldn't say anything about it to _me_ ," Duncan shot back. Sighing, he leaned over to pick up an empty beer bottle. "It'll be fine, don't worry. I've already apologized to her. And you might need to as well. We'll get the silent treatment for a wee while, then she'll be back to her usual sunny self."

Except, when it came to his dad, nothing was ever that simple. "You didn't just ask her a question, though, did you? She's not _that_ sensitive. If she blew up at you, it's because you pushed her too far."

He had the decency to look embarrassed. "I _might_ have pried a little more than I should have, yes."

"You need to stop that," Erland said. "You need to remember she's a grown woman, and give her some bloody space."

"I know I do. I just…" Duncan blew out a breath. "I _worry_ , okay?"

"About what?"

"About Solly. About the places she goes. About the people she meets."

Erland knew what that last part really meant. "Not every man is as bad as Thelden Camelor, dad. He's the exception, not the rule."

"I know that. It's just…" Sighing again, Duncan rubbed the back a hand across his forehead.

"What?"

"Solly's all I have left of her mother," he said, so quietly Erland almost didn't hear him. "If anything ever happened to her, I honestly don't know what I would do."

Erland didn't know either, but he was fairly sure it wouldn't be pretty. "Nothing's going to happen to her. Especially not with this guy she's dating. He's a good one. Trust me." He probably shouldn't have said that, but he hadn't named any names, so he wasn't _really_ spilling more secrets.

Duncan's head came up. "That means you know who he is."

Un-fucking-believable. "Okay, remind me again, what you just said about not prying?"

"Sorry."

"You need to leave her alone," Erland said in the firmest tone he could find. "Leave her to do what she wants to do. When she's ready to talk, she'll talk, okay?"

"Can I ask one final question?"

Erland hesitated. "Sure," he said.

"The guy she's dating," Duncan started. "By any chance, does he work up at the Meduseld Palace?"

That was far too close to the mark for comfort—how the _fuck_ did he dig these things out? Was he running a private network of spies? Or tapping the emails of the entire Rohanese Civil Service? "I'm not answering that," Erland said. "All I'm going to say is, you need to shut up and mind your own business." He turned to head back into the house. "Before I tear some strips out of you as well."

Bema, what a fucking day.

The strain of getting up before nine. The tedium of the naming party. The torture of having to talk to Theonara. The shock of the Thenwis Colafell thing. The painfully long drive back to Edoras, which Elfhelm had thought would never end. And then, sitting in his house for two hours, eating his way through three bags of chips and walking pace marks into his living room rug while he waited for someone in the King's Household to call him.

Colwenna had finally called him back around six, to let him know the King was alive, out of hospital, and more or less in one piece, and that he could come to the Palace to see His Majesty at seven.

So, here he finally was, marching down the wooden-floored splendour of the King's Hall, at precisely one minute to seven. He reached the doors at the far end, stopping to say 'hello' to the guards—Vonnal and Sorvana tonight.

That was when he heard the racket.

From somewhere inside the King's rooms came the muted sound of someone shouting. And not in a funny or happy way—angrily, at the top of their lungs. The sheer _fury_ behind the noise—it was almost enough to make him turn round and go back to his car. He wasn't even sure who the shouter was. He could hear the volume, but he couldn't make out the voice, or what they were saying. Obviously nothing good. From the pitch, it sounded like a woman, but he wouldn't put any money on it.

"Who is that?" he whispered to Vonnal. "Doing the shouting, I mean?" It couldn't be Colwenna—he'd left her in the main entrance downstairs.

Vonnal sighed. "It's The Princess Royal, My Lord. She's quite upset."

That Marcher talent for understatement—it was almost an art. Or maybe a science. "Vonnal, that's not just _quite upset_. That's positively volcanic."

"Aye, sir. That it is."

"Is it even safe to go in?"

Vonnal wrinkled his nose in a slight wince. "You _might_ want to wait until she's done, sir. When she's like this, it's best not to get in the way."

Elfhelm was very much inclined to agree. The prospect of facing Mount Eowyn in the middle of one of her major eruptions made him want to scurry away and find a sound-proofed cupboard to hide in. He turned to point back down the Hall. "I'm just going to wait in the Gallery, if that's alright," he said to Vonnal. "Could one of you come get me when they're, you know"—he waved his hand at the inner door—"finished?"

Vonnal almost smiled. "Of course, sir."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the door to the King's inner rooms flew open and Eowyn stormed out. She stopped abruptly as she saw Elfhelm, frowning, apparently confused by his presence. She'd obviously been crying—her eye makeup was smudged and her cheeks were stained with tears.

"Your Highness," Elfhelm said, nodding a bow as he went to meet her.

But Eowyn was in no mood for pleasant greetings tonight. "He's all yours," she said. "Maybe you can talk some sense into that selfish, pig-headed skull of his. Because I think I'm done trying." She stormed away, clasping her hand to her mouth. A sob echoed along the Hall, trailing after the sound of her heels.

"I'll just…" Elfhelm waved past the guards. "I'll be with His Majesty if anyone needs me."

Vonnal nodded. "Yes, sir."

He walked through the public rooms to knock on the inner door. "Hello? Anyone home?" he called out as he slowly pushed the door in. What a ridiculous bloody question. Where the hell else would His Majesty be?

"Through here, Elf," he heard the King call out.

Elfhelm found him in his bedroom, lying on top of the bed, propped up on a mountain of cushions, his left arm in a light sling, one ice pack on his left shoulder, another on his right thigh. But other than that, he looked to be more or less in one piece—no bruises or stitches, no missing limbs, no body parts set in a clumsy cast. Elfhelm breathed a massive sigh of relief; the tension he'd been storing up since three o'clock finally drained away. "Your Majesty, please believe me when I say, it is _extremely_ good to see you."

"You heard about my little accident, then?" said Eomer, smiling.

Elfhelm grabbed a chair to drag it over beside the bed. "It's all over the news, so it's been pretty hard to miss." He flapped his hands. "You'll forgive my language, sir, but what the _bloody_ hell happened?"

"Was at the track, doing some laps, trying out my new Dunedain suit. Hit a squirrel while I was taking a corner. The bike went down, I went down with it."

That sounded ball-achingly horrifying. "And are you alright? There wasn't much information on the news. They just said you were alive and not in any danger."

"I'm fine. Doctor said I bruised my spleen, wherever the fuck that is. But everything between my neck and my knees hurts," he said, moving his hand from his collar bone to his thigh. "Coughing's torture. I sneezed a few hours ago, I swear Elf, I almost passed out."

"But nothing's broken?" Elfhelm said, gesturing at the sling.

Eomer shook his head. "Nothing's broken, no. They x-rayed my neck and spine, no damage, everything's good." He reached up with his right hand to pat the ice pack on his shoulder. "Separated my shoulder. Nothing severe, doc said it was barely first degree. Just needs rest, ice and painkillers for a few weeks. Might need a bit of physio after."

"I, um, I passed Eowyn when I came in. She seemed upset."

Eomer snorted. "Not sure 'upset' really cuts it. She reamed me out when they brought me home. Then Colwenna took over while Eowyn went off to recharge, then Fastmer got his shot in, then Algrin as well, if you can believe it. By the time Algrin was done, Eowyn was ready to start whaling on me all over again."

"They were worried, sir. You could have been killed."

"I was wearing good protective gear. And it was only a lowside fall at eighty. Ninety at the very most. It wouldn't ever have been that bad."

Elfhelm wasn't so sure. But no point in berating the King about it—he'd probably taken all the berating he could stomach for one day already. "Speaking of gear, how's the bike?" he asked.

"No idea. I know Brendal brought her home, but that's all." Eomer smiled slightly. "I tried to ask Fastmer when I came home, he was so angry, I honestly thought he was going to take out his gun and shoot me."

Yes, that sounded like the kind of reaction Fastmer would have. "He didn't take it well, then. Your accident, I mean."

The smile vanished. "He didn't, no. Should've seen him at the hospital. I've never seen him like that before. He was wound pretty tight."

"Can you blame him?"

Eomer shook his head. "He was a bit short with some of the staff, though. I'll have to write some apology letters, I think."

"Should maybe start with one to your sister, sir."

"Yeah, I was thinking that."

"No riding for a while, then?"

Eomer's face lit up. "I actually asked the doc about that. He said I should be able to do some gentle riding in three to four weeks. But no long distance riding or racing for at least eight."

It took Elfhelm a moment to realize the King wasn't kidding; he wanted to reach out and strangle His Moronic Majesty with his bare hands. "You are un- _fucking_ -believable, you know that?"

"What?"

"You almost _died_ , and you're already talking about dusting off and getting back on?"

Eomer rolled his eyes. "It was just a minor accident, Elf. I wasn't anywhere _near_ close to dying, trust me. The whole lot of you just need to relax."

Except, how the fuck could any of them relax when the man they were all trying to protect or care for was as idiotic as this?

"What's that for?" Elfhelm asked, pointing at the ice pack on the King's thigh.

"Groin strain." Eomer made a face. "Hurts like hell."

"There won't be any naughty business for you on Tuesday night, then, will there?" Elfhelm said without thinking.

Eomer frowned. "Sorry?"

"Your date with Lady Solwen," Elfhelm explained. "Knackered shoulder and knackered groin, you'll have to keep it safe and polite. Stick to chit-chat about ponies, or something." And nothing that involved coughing or sneezing.

"Who the fuck told you about my date?"

"Well, since you _completely_ neglected to mention it to me, which is slightly insulting, seeing as how I'm supposed to be your best friend"—Eomer rolled his eyes—"I had no choice but to hear about it from the young lady herself."

"The Romengar naming party, right." Eomer shifted the ice pack on his thigh slightly. "How was it? What did they call the kid?"

"Stefon," Elfhelm said. "And, for a naming party, it was actually rather exciting."

His eyes lit up. "Did someone get into a fight?"

"No fights, no." Although, by all accounts, his sister and Lady Solwen had come pretty close.

"Then what?"

"You're not going to like it," Elfhelm warned.

"Just tell me."

Time for the big reveal. "Someone at the party told me, Thenwis Colafell is publishing her petition tomorrow." He paused to let the announcement sink in. "And she's apparently going to ask for an awful lot more than any of us ever expected."

To his surprise, instead of erupting in shock and asking for more information, Eomer simply smiled. "It's okay. I actually know about that."

"You do?"

Eomer nodded. "Fenbrand found out late last night. It's going to be an absolute shitshow tomorrow, but we're ready for it. Or, as ready as we can be for now." He adjusted a pillow behind his head. "Is that why you left me all those voicemails? Because you were trying to tell me what you'd found out?"

"It was, yes. And um, just so you know, I _might_ have left a few for Eowyn and Colwenna as well."

"They mentioned that, yes," said Eomer, smiling again. "No harm done. They know you had the best of intentions."

He seemed unnaturally calm; it was all slightly unnerving. "You're taking this whole thing awfully well."

"Do you know, that's exactly what Algrin said, when he told me someone at the track might have recorded me crashing?" He picked a plastic cylinder full of pills off his bedside table. "I think it's the painkillers. Something called Seprevin. I've had two today already." Eomer rattled the cylinder at him. "Fucking great stuff."

"You might want to take another before Eowyn comes to see you again."

He sighed. " _If_ she comes to see me again. She's pretty angry with me."

Not the only one, Elfhelm was willing to bet. "Can't say I really blame her, sir. She doesn't like your motorbikes, anymore than she liked Theodred's planes. She lost him to one terrible accident. She doesn't want to lose you to another."

"I know," Eomer softly said.

"So, maybe you should give some thought to putting your high-speed racing days behind you?"

Eomer didn't respond, but simply turned the cylinder over and over in his hands, before sighing again and setting it back on his table. "I'm _maybe_ willing to acknowledge, it might not be the most sensible use of my time."

Elfhelm had hoped for a little bit more, but that was a useful start.

Eomer rubbed his face and stifled a yawn, prompting Elfhelm to stand and put his chair back where he'd found it. "But I can see you're tired, and you've obviously had a hell of a day, so I'll head out now, leave you to get some rest," he said. "I just wanted to know you were okay."

"Thank you for visiting."

"What kind of best friend would I be if I didn't?"

"One other thing," Eomer said as Elfhelm was halfway to the door.

"What?"

"When you saw Lady Solwen today. At the naming party, I mean…"

"Yes?"

"How did she look?"

This probably wasn't the time to spring his usual, puntastic 'with her eyes' answer. "Nice?" was Elfhelm's actual offer.

"Nice?" Eomer repeated. "Is that all?"

"I don't really do women, sir." In either the figurative or literal sense. "Don't ask me for an opinion on how attractive they are. I'm not qualified to answer."

"Okay, well, did she say anything about our date on Tuesday?"

Elfhelm frowned. "Not sure I follow."

"Did she seem interested, I mean. Eager. Excited." Eomer made a face. "I don't know. Pick whatever word works. What I mean is, did you get the sense she's looking forward to it?"

"Oh, absolutely, yes." He racked his brain, trying to remember what Solwen had said. "She told me she enjoyed the lunch, and that she was looking forward to seeing you again." Or something like that; he wasn't quite sure.

"Okay, well, that's good, I suppose."

He was about to share the 'paragon of virtue' remark, then decided, on second thoughts, it was probably better left unshared. His Majesty might take it as a personal challenge. "Best of luck tomorrow," he said instead. "Try not to let all the bastards and arseholes get you down."

"Can't promise anything, but I'll do my best."

Elfhelm tapped the phone in his jacket pocket. "Stay in touch. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. I'm only ten minutes away if you need me."

"Will do, thank you."

"And call me on Wednesday morning, if you have time? Let me know how your date went." Or, more specifically, how virtuous it turned out to be.

"Elf, as always, you'll be the first to know."

As Elfhelm was heading back to the entrance he'd parked at, Colwenna appeared, popping out of a nearby room.

She smiled as she saw him. "How was your visit with the King?"

"Good, but I kept it brief. Was nice to see him, make sure he's in one piece, but he seemed tired. I thought it best not to stay for too long."

"He's certainly had a stressful day."

"You all have, I'm sure."

"And did you manage to discuss the urgent matter with him?" Her eyes and voice took on a teasing tone. "The one you left all the messages about?"

He felt the tips of his ears burn. "I did, yes, thank you for asking. And sorry for spamming you all a bit." He dropped his voice to a murmur—eavesdropping was awfully easy in these massive, echoing hallways. "It was to tell him about the petition. I found out about it today, was trying to give His Majesty the heads up, so he would know what to expect. Didn't realize Fenbrand had already filled him in."

She nodded, understanding. "I'm sure he appreciated your intentions."

"It's not going to be a fun day tomorrow, is it?" The tabloids were going to go nuts. And as much as he didn't wish any harm on Thenwis, he was half-hoping The Sun or The Record would come out with all guns blazing, eat the lovely Miss Colafell alive.

"It most certainly is not," Colwenna said. "Everyone and their mother's dog is going to have an opinion about the petition. _And_ about the King's crash. And to have them come up on the same day? It's hard to imagine how the timing could be any worse."

That didn't make sense to Elfhelm. "Wait, so you don't think the crash will generate some sympathy for him?"

"From some people, yes. But I'm quite sure plenty of other people are going to jump on it as an example of how reckless His Majesty is. There'll be sympathy for sure, don't get me wrong, but a fair amount of criticism as well." She made a pained face. "Especially if what Algrin says is true, and somebody at the track was secretly recording his laps. That's not going to help at all, if people see what speed he was doing."

"He said he was only doing eighty when he crashed," Elfhelm recalled. "Ninety at the most."

"But he crashed on a corner, not on the straight. Fastmer told me, on the fastest sections, he pushes it _well_ over two hundred. We'll have a _devil_ of a time convincing people riding at that speed isn't out-and-out suicidal."

Yes, there was that. "Well. Let's wait and see what happens. Might not be as bad as you think."

"It'll be even worse," she said tartly. "It always is. You know how the papers work. How people like Camelor and Keveleok work."

"If it helps, I think I _might_ have planted the idea that he should give up racing, stick to regular, everyday riding instead."

"Really?"

Elfhelm nodded. "I pulled a tiny guilt trip on him. Reminded him nobody wants him dying in the same type of tragic accident that killed his cousin."

"And how did he take it?"

"Quite well, actually. A lot better than I expected. No shouting or swearing or huffing at all."

Colwenna snorted. "It's probably the drugs."

"Hmm, yes, they do seem to be making him more, how shall I say, _amenable_ than usual, don't they?" Elfhelm said, grinning.

"They certainly do. I told Fastmer I'm giving serious thought to buying in a bulk pack, so I can grind one of them into His Majesty's breakfast every morning."

And maybe even Eowyn's as well…

"I heard he wasn't very happy," Elfhelm said. "Fastmer, I mean."

"He wasn't no. I'm just surprised he hasn't tried to resign."

The week was but young. "I, uh, I also bumped into Eowyn. She seemed quite angry."

Shoulders slumping, Colwenna sighed. It was only then Elfhelm realized how tired she looked. "She is… _beyond_ angry," Colwenna said. "She was in the middle of an engagement when she got the news. It was almost an hour before someone was able to follow up to let her know the King was more or less unharmed. I think she spent that hour in a frozen, smiling panic assuming the absolute worst."

He could see how that would have been unpleasant. "I'm sure she'll be fine in a couple of days."

"I hope so. Because Bema knows the next couple of weeks are going to be stressful enough as it is, without His Majesty and Her Royal Highness giving each other the cold shoulder all the way through it as well. And if the press gets wind of how furious Eowyn is?" She snorted. "Good luck with that."

Elfhelm wasn't quite sure what else to say. Or what he could do to fix the problem. Other than to offer moral support, of course. "If there's anything I can do…"

Smiling, she patted him on the arm. "You've already leaned on the King about his racing. That's a good start."

"You know where to find me if you need me to lean on him again."


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is interested, [this page](https://www.drivingtests.co.nz/resources/highside-and-lowside-motorcycle-crashes-explained-video/) explains the difference between a lowside and highside motorcycle crash. Eomer had the former - much less painful :)

**Monday June 8, 2020**

Thenwis turned to page thirteen—the Announcements & Petitions section.

She scanned the columns, one by one. Fourteen births. Three engagements. Eight marriages. Seven deaths. Four divorces—two provisional, two absolute. The usual money and business matters—everything from probate filings and sheriff sales to bankruptcies and dissolutions. And there it was, right at the end, the first (and only) entry in the column reserved for petitions.

She smiled to herself as she read it again. It was perfect, in everything from the phrasing to the placement of each colon and comma. It wasn't a petition so much as a beautifully worded 'Fuck You' letter—a middle finger in ten point font, aimed right at her royal cousin.

She hadn't intended to ask for this much. Back when she'd started out on this path, she'd intended to ask only for the restoration of her grandmother's rights (and thus of hers and her younger sister's as well) and not a single thing more. But that was before she'd bumped into the King at his birthday party. The way he'd spoken to her that night—as if she was some slow-witted child who didn't understand how politics or the world worked. And to then lecture her on difficult choices. _Eomer_ , of all people? A man who'd never had to make a difficult choice in his life? A man who'd had everything he could ever want—wealth, status, purpose, power—handed to him on a mithril platter?

But as the Earl of Camelor had pointed out, why _shouldn't_ she also ask to be named as Theoden's heir? She had a valid legal basis—her grandmother was the oldest of the late King's sisters—and there were no other reasons to exclude her. It was a controversial request, for sure, but what harm would it do to try? The worst the Hall and the House could do was refuse to hear her petition. She had absolutely nothing to lose, and literally the whole country to gain.

And if that caused trouble for her cousin, well, that was just too damn bad. It wasn't as if he wasn't causing plenty of trouble for himself already.

She flipped the paper back to page three, scanning the rows of photos again. They were blurry—captured from the video footage recorded on an observer's phone—but there was no mistaking who they were of. His Blessed Majesty, Eomer King, having a disastrous end to his trip to the track, losing control of his precious bike, going into the gravel arse over tit, as her old Marcher nanny had been so fond of saying.

She couldn't have asked for a better starting point for her petition. Now, the Countess of Keveleok could argue on more than just the fairness angle when she eventually made her speech—she could push the responsibility angle as well, remind everyone in the Hall how rash and reckless His Majesty was compared to his sensible younger cousin. It might not work on many people, but it would certainly work on a few. And if her petition _did_ ever go to the vote, those few people could make all the difference.

The final photo made Thenwis grimace. The article said the King had sustained minor injuries only—no broken bones or organ damage—but the crash must still have hurt like a bitch. _And_ he'd probably wrecked his bike.

If she wasn't so furious with him right now, she would almost feel sorry for him.

Eomer Eomundson—the royal gift that kept on giving.

In political opportunity terms, this was Rogen's birthday and Yule all rolled into one. He couldn't wait to see what Keveleok would do with this new ammunition. He knew how _he_ would use it, of course, but he'd already decided to leave the next phase of the plan in her hands, even if those hands weren't quite as capable as his own. He wanted to share in the final rewards, but he didn't want to take the main role, in case it all went wrong and the shit hit the fan.

Rogen poured himself some more tea, trying to decide which of the photos he liked the most. He couldn't choose; they were all too good—it warmed his heart (and cock) just looking at them. Too bad the King's injuries hadn't been more severe. What he wouldn't give for His Majesty to have a truly sickening crash, to smash his legs and spine to pieces, end up paralyzed from the waist down. How glorious would it be, if the asshole had to spend the rest of his life shitting into a medical bag, and couldn't stick his royal dick in anything tawdry ever again? Including—no, _especially_ —Rogen's bitch of a soon-to-be ex-wife.

It amused him no end, that Seorsa honestly thought he didn't know what she and the King were doing. Stupid, ignorant, foolish woman…

And what would Seorsa's next move be if her royal boyfriend _had_ actually crippled himself? She liked to pretend she was loyal, but Rogen knew better than anyone just how slippery she could actually be. He was quite sure she would drop Eomer like a hot stone as soon as he stopped being useful to her, start looking for someone else to protect her instead. Too bad His Blessed Majesty wasn't savvy enough with women to figure that out for himself.

He made a mental note to go online later, find the video of the King's crash, download a copy of it for his records. He would put in his 'things that make me happy' folder, next to the photos of the wreckage of Prince Theodred's plane.

He smiled as he sipped on his tea. This was going to be a _wonderful_ week.

Seorsa couldn't recall when the Monday morning papers had last delivered such shocking news.

The photos of the King's crash were bad. The Colafell girl's petition was worse.

The text itself was a real piece of work—the phrasing had Rogen's fingerprints running all through it. She was tempted to give Thenwis a call, warn her not to believe a word the Earl of Camelor said, tell her to rip up her petition, go and apologize to the King and run for cover as fast as she could.

Unfortunately, from what she'd heard, Thenwis wasn't the type to either listen to or follow advice. She wouldn't accept an offer of help, especially not when it came from the woman one of her main supporters was in the process of divorcing.

And speaking of people who wouldn't accept offers of help, she could only imagine how much grief His Majesty would be giving his staff today, trying to pretend he wasn't hurt, that everything was totally fine, and that he would be able to do everything he usually did, at the speed he usually did it.

Eowyn and Colwenna would keep him in line. Assuming they were even speaking to him, of course.

Maybe she should give him a call. See if he needed some company, or a soothing presence to ease his pain and help him recover. She would have to go to him, and they would need to be gentle, not do anything that placed weight on his arm.

That was easy enough; she could think of at least two decent positions.

Eowyn scanned the photos again. Looking at them should make her feel something—angry, amused, horrified, stressed. But all she felt this morning was tired and numb.

She'd unloaded her feelings about the accident already; there was nothing more she could say or do on the matter. Eomer would either listen to her, and change his behaviour, or ignore her completely, and continue to do what he'd always done. She didn't have much hope for the former. Theodred had been just as stubborn, just as convinced nothing would ever happen to him, and his hobbies had eventually killed him. The best approach to take now was to apparently resign herself to the fact that Eomer's would eventually kill him as well.

She pressed the bell on the wall to summon Halmund. He appeared at the door a few seconds later. As he entered, he paused to give the usual small bow.

"Good morning, Halmund," she said, trying to summon a welcoming smile.

"Good morning, Your Highness. How are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you," she lied. "But I've decided I'm going to have breakfast here this morning."

He blinked in surprise—the most emotion she'd ever seen him display. "Not dining with the King this morning, ma'am?"

She shook her head. "Not today, no." She loved her brother, more than anyone else in the world, but she couldn't talk to Eomer yet. Maybe by the end of the week. Or by next Monday morning. But definitely not today. "And I think I'll have a hot breakfast this morning. With coffee, please, instead of tea." The way she was feeling, the lousy night's sleep she'd had, plagued by terrible dreams of going to a morgue to identify the broken remains of Eomer's body, tea just wasn't going to cut it.

"Of course, Your Highness," Halmund said, bowing again.

As her footman withdrew, she grabbed The Edoras Times from the table and flicked through it until she found the Announcement & Petitions section. And there it was, as Fenbrand had promised—the full text of their cousin's request. Asking not only for the restoration of her rights, but also to more or less be named as Queen in Eomer's place.

Of all the days to finally have this come up. "When troubles come, they come not alone, but in multitudes and masses," she murmured.

The war was on. She just hoped she would have the energy to fight the battles.

Morwen had never read anything so _outrageously_ insolent in her life. And she'd read some outrageously insolent things in her time. The late Countess of Hamelmark's dismissal of the infamous peacock killing, for one. But even that astoundingly shameless letter paled in comparison to what Thenwis was doing.

The sheer unbridled _gall_ of the girl, thinking she could ask to be named as Theoden's heir in place of her cousin. Who in Bema's name did she think she was? There were laws and customs to be followed, and whether Thenwis liked it or not—whether _Morwen_ liked it or not—Eomer had been formally crowned. One didn't go overturning such things just because one couldn't accept or didn't like one's position.

She got it from her grandmother. Thengwen had never been the most troublesome of her and King Thengel's children—that honour would always belong to Theodwyn (with Morghild running a close second place)—but she'd caused them plenty of worry in her own way. Certainly with her taste in men. None of this would even be an issue at all, if Thengwen had only married a Landed man instead of the wealthy nothing she'd chosen. If she hadn't ignored her family's wishes, Thengwen would be Queen of Rohan today, instead of the hot-headed idiot who lived at the Palace.

Just thinking about that idiot now—she couldn't bring herself to think or say the ingrate's name—made her want to throw her plate of porridge across the room. None of this would _ever_ have happened, if only he had listened to her.

He hadn't listened to her, of course, and now, his hold on the Crown was in peril, just as she'd predicted.

She'd tried to help him; he'd turned her down. It was no longer her problem to deal with, and whatever happened from here, would happen.

But thinking about him reminded her—she still needed to call her lawyer, have those changes made to her will. Although, looking at today's other notable story—the photos of the idiot's crash—made her wonder whose will would end up being opened first.

Just as wilful as his mother. And just as foolish with speed as his father.

Thank the Valar for Dunedain suits, was all Aragorn could think.

Crashes were best avoided, of course, but if you were going to have one, you wanted to be in a Dunedain suit when it happened. You might still bruise a few organs and break a few bones, but your chances of surviving the crash with your spine intact were _vastly_ enhanced.

As the photos before him so perfectly proved. Just a pity there weren't a few more of them—a full, frame-by-frame sequence would show the precise moment when the airbag collar had activated. He could see the collar in the final photo for sure—cradling a prone Eomer's neck like a massive, portable, hi-tech pillow.

The suit had cost him almost eight thousand dollars, and it was probably wrecked beyond further use, given the beating it would have taken, but Aragorn would happily order a hundred of them, one right after the other, if it kept his friend and fellow King safe. Best not to mention that to Arwen, though. She would go all rational on him, point out in a calm voice that the better solution by far would be for Eomer not to indulge in such a risky pursuit.

Sadly, that was an argument Aragorn wouldn't be able to challenge. He knew how much Eomer loved to race at the track, but it wasn't really the kind of thing a King of Rohan should do. He was honestly surprised nobody in the Rohanese government had told Eomer to give it up yet. But maybe that would be coming now. And being only a Constitutional monarch, if an order was actually given, Eomer would have no choice but to obey.

Unfortunately, the King's crash wasn't the only troubling news coming out of Rohan today. Sighing, Aragorn flicked the paper forward ten pages, going back to the Announcements & Petitions section. He scanned the single entry in the Petitions column, still not quite believing what he was seeing. He'd heard all the rumours, of course, had known the petition was in the works, but he hadn't imagined for a single moment the Colafell girl would ever ask for this much.

He should have someone put out a statement, and soon, before any of the High Families developed their usual round of unhelpful ideas. He would have to keep a close eye on the House of Erech for sure. He didn't think Amrandir of Erech wanted to be King of Rohan, and he couldn't be, as the law currently stood, since he'd been born and raised in Gondor, but it wasn't the Prince himself who would cause the most trouble. It was Morghild, that shit-stirring Rohanese mother of his. If she decided to get in on the act—use the Colafell petition to somehow advance her own children's status in her home nation—there was no telling what might happen. Best to nip that in the bud, step on Morghild politely but firmly before she developed so much as a _hint_ of a plot.

Who should he ask to write the statement for him? He wasn't sure the Lord Steward had the delicate touch it would need. The succession to the Rohanese Crown was a purely internal affair, and even the High King of Gondor couldn't be seen to be openly interfering in another nation's political matters, no matter how closely allied that nation was. But Aragorn wanted everyone in the West to know, in the least threatening and most tactful of terms, that Eomer had his total support. Succession disputes could be nasty affairs, as his own family's history demonstrated.

He reached out to press a button on his desk.

A few seconds later, one of the Lord Steward's numerous assistants appeared. The man—Aragorn couldn't remember his name—gave a respectful bow. "Good morning, Your Majesty. Is there something I can assist you with?"

"There is indeed." Aragorn closed the newspaper over. "Could you please find Lord Faramir for me? "

"Of course, sir. Is there a message you would like me to convey to him for you?"

"No message. Just tell him I require his assistance with a sensitive matter."

"Very good, sir. I'll bring him to you as soon as I can." The assistant bowed again and hurried away, closing the door over behind him.

Denethor wouldn't agree, but Faramir was the best man for this job. He had a subtle, soothing touch his father and brother usually lacked, and thanks to the years he'd spent abroad in various places, he was good with the nuances of international relations. He would know exactly what to say, and the precisely informative-but-tactful tone in which to say it.

Was Faramir on the guest list for the Oath anniversary banquet? He couldn't remember; he would have to check.

And that reminded him—he still hadn't phoned Eomer to discuss the guest list situation. But this wasn't the week to have that call. Better to leave it to another, less stressful time…

What better way to start his week than with a meeting of the Privy Council?

Not a full Council session—those were only convened when the monarch died or declared their intention to marry (and there was another reason to never get hitched)—but even the regular sessions were still butt-numbingly boring affairs, full of declarations, assents and orders. The work was important and had to be done, but he'd never understood why it took so much fucking time and effort to do it.

Two hours, this session would last. Two _agonizingly_ painful hours. Eomer knew, forty minutes from now, he was going to wish his crash had killed him after all. Compared to the 'pleasure' of hosting the Council, death might actually be an attractive fate.

It wouldn't be so bad if he'd had a relaxing start to his day. But between the shitty night's sleep, not being able to go for his swim, the absolutely ridiculous farce of trying to get washed and dressed without using both arms, discovering someone at the track had recorded his crash (as evidenced by the photos in various papers) and Eowyn's decision not to join him for breakfast, he wasn't in the most patient of moods.

His shoulder was throbbing again, and the painkillers he'd taken—the regular, over-the-counter stuff—hadn't put much of a dent in the pain. The prescription painkillers would work, but they also made him feel slightly light-headed—as if he'd had a few beers or taken a few hits of a joint—not the most appropriate mental condition to be in when one was about to spend one's morning discussing weighty Constitutional matters.

The Councillors rose as he entered the room—seven men and three women. The Council should really have more women on it, and not just for gender equality reasons. In his experience, women knew how to skip the crap and get to the point. Eomer was sure, if he put one in charge, these sessions would never take more than an hour.

"Good morning," he said, going to take his chair at the head of the table. He nodded as he took his seat, letting the Councillors know they could sit as well. He pulled his leather agenda folder towards him, flipped it open to scan through the list, and almost cried as he saw how many items were on it.

He pulled his painkillers out of his pocket, popped the lid, tapped one out and grabbed his water to wash it down. Fuck being in an appropriate mental condition. There was no way in hell he was getting through this without some chemicals to help him along.

He looked to the Lord President of the Council, sitting in the place of honour immediately to his right, forcing a smile he didn't feel. "The Crown is ready, My Lord."

The Lord President gave a small bow. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said. Then he started to talk. And after that, he talked some more. And just when Eomer thought he was done, he took a breath and talked again.

It wasn't long before Eomer's attention started to wander. He tried to keep his mind focused, but between the drugs, the lack of sleep and the utterly tedious subject matter, he was fighting a losing battle. What would Bregdan bring him for lunch? When would Brendal call him to tell him how damaged the Firefoot was? What could he do to make Eowyn not be pissed off at him? What kind of flowers should he send to the hospital staff to thank them for all their help? Could he drink while he was taking these drugs? How was he going to tell Aragorn he'd already ruined his Dunedain suit? What if the squirrel he'd squashed had left babies behind in a nest? What tie should he wear to the Midsummer party? Why was it called a _Privy_ Council, given a toilet was never involved? Was free will real, or just an illusion? Had United hired a new goalie yet? What did it mean, when he had dreams where all his teeth were falling apart? What made heat feel hot and water feel wet?

The talking had stopped. He raised his eyes to see ten people were staring at him, obviously waiting for him to speak. "Approved," he said with a solemn nod, making a wild but educated guess about what the Council expected his next words to be. That was the only reason he was here—to add the Crown's official approval to legislative and judicial decisions the government had already made. There wasn't really any other response he could give.

Maybe one day, he should answer 'Denied', just to see what look would appear on the Lord President's face…

On second thoughts, he probably shouldn't. If he did, he might not be King for very long after. And he quite liked being the King. It was stressful at times, but fun at others. And Thenwis Colafell wouldn't agree, but he personally thought he was _extremely_ good at it. He should ask the government for a raise. Or some kind of performance bonus.

And speaking of fun, didn't he have a date tomorrow? A late night drinky thing on the terrace? Yes, dammit, he bloody well did. With Solwen Hamelmark, of all people. How was she getting to the Palace? Would the guards at the gate know it was safe to let her in? Was there any food she couldn't eat? What would they do if it rained? What would he wear? What would _she_ wear? Something pretty, he hoped. Or something low cut, that let him see slightly more of those _beautiful_ tits.

He wouldn't have her for dessert tomorrow. He was going to do this properly, be a gentleman for once, wait to get her into bed. But he was _definitely_ going to kiss her. Kissing was fine for a second date, right?

Duncan wasn't sure which page in the paper was harder to look at—the one with the Colafell girl's petition, or the one with the photos of the King's crash.

Bad enough to have to deal with either problem on its own, but to have both happen on the same day? Talk about a double whammy? He didn't envy the King right now, having to face the shitstorm from the petition, while he probably felt like a walking bruise with a sling.

But it wasn't all bad. From a purely selfish perspective, it meant somebody in Edoras was having an even shittier Monday morning than him. The King would be struggling with an existential threat to his Crown. _He_ was only struggling with persuading his twenty-eight-year-old daughter to speak to him and her brother again.

Sixteen hours on from their fight on the terrace, and Solwen still hadn't emerged from her room. Erland had gone to speak to her after dinner last night, intending to apologize for letting her dating secret slip, but he'd been turned away at her bedroom door with an angry instruction involving body parts and fornication. Which was slightly worrying, because Solwen wasn't the type to hold a grudge, or to refuse an apology when it was offered sincerely. Her temper tended to be explosive—it came on in a flash, she would shout and swear, maybe throw a few soft objects—but it usually passed as quickly as it arrived, with everything forgiven and forgotten within a few hours. If she was still angry with them this morning, the conversation they'd had last night must have hit a really sensitive nerve.

But other than kick down her door and drag her out of her room by her hair (which Duncan didn't imagine would solve the problem), there wasn't really much they could do but wait. Erland had already slunk off to work, still unhappy about the whole matter, no doubt already planning a second apology attempt tonight.

Duncan checked the time as he finished his coffee. It was almost eight; he would have to get moving if he wanted to be in his seat by eight-thirty. It wouldn't do to be late for work on the first day of the new session. "Time for me to head out," he said to Nediriel, folding the paper to set it aside.

As he pushed his chair back, she rose from her own, going to grab his suit jacket from the hook on the wall to bring it to him. Instead of handing it over, she gestured for him to turn around and held it behind him for him to slip his arms in. She turned him around to button him up and smooth down his lapels. "First day back," she said, pinching his pocket handkerchief into a point. "You remember what we discussed last night?"

He sighed. "No picking fights." Which was going to be a hard promise to keep. It was the Hall of Lords, for Bema's sake. If he couldn't pick fights with useless arseholes he hated, what in Eru's name was the point? He might as well just stay at home and drink in the bloody garden instead.

"And?" she prompted.

"And no getting myself kicked out." Grinning, he leaned in to kiss her. "Especially not for calling someone an effing bee."

Her warning finger came out. "You better stick to that. I'm getting tired of having to apologize to people on your behalf. You get yourself suspended again, even for a single day, you'll be sleeping at the end of the garden until we go to Isendale for Midsummer."

It wouldn't be the worst place he'd ever slept. At least the garden had a soft lawn. And Erland would help him put up a tent. "I'll be a paragon of civility, I promise." For the first week of the session, at least. He couldn't promise anything into week two.

He plucked a banana and apple from the fruit bowl, shoved them into his satchel and strode down the hall to his office, where he grabbed his security pass and his keys from his desk. As he stepped back into the hall, he looked up the stairs, cocking an ear to listen for signs of life. Somewhere, someone was watching a television. It might be Solly, but it could just as easily be Astalor.

Nediriel stepped into the hall, her eyes following his gaze. "She'll be fine," she said, smiling softly. "She just needs some time to cool down."

"I know. I just hate it when we fall out."

"You shouldn't provoke her to the point where she ends up falling out with you, then."

Sadly, there was truth in that. It wasn't always his fault when he and Solly fell out—she was more than capable of provoking him just as badly right back—but this time, he was definitely the one to blame. "I didn't mean to," he said. "Provoke her, I mean."

"That's the problem, though, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You never mean to do the things you shouldn't. But then you go and do them anyway."

"You're about to tell me this is a teachable moment, aren't you?"

"Well, isn't it?"

There was truth in that as well. But a truth he didn't have time to deal with right now—he would reflect on his poor behaviour later. "Can you keep an eye on her for me?" he asked, gesturing upstairs.

"Of course." Nediriel smiled. "She still needs a dress for the Midsummer party. I was going to ask her if she would like to go shopping."

He grimaced. "Except, that's not really a calming activity for her?" It was more likely to make her even more angry…

"Yes, but I thought if I took her somewhere _really_ upmarket, she might get so angry at how stuck-up the salespeople are, she'll forget to be angry at you and Erland."

Duncan snickered. There was definitely method in his wife's madness. "She'll need something for tomorrow night as well," he added.

"Sorry?"

"For her date, remember?" he said. "She should have something pretty to wear. And some new shoes," he added. "And maybe even a nice bag as well." Or a shawl. Or some earrings. Or whatever non-motorcycle-themed items Solly accessorized her outfits with.

Nediriel stepped back, eyes narrowing, crossing her arms. "Duncan?"

"What?"

"Please tell me you're not trying to buy your way back into your daughter's good books?"

"Of course not," he lied. "Why on earth would I ever do that?"

"You're such a liar."

Grinning, he leaned forward to kiss her again. "But I'm the liar you married."

"Don't remind me," she murmured, pushing up to kiss him back.

"But let's say I _was_ trying to buy my way back into Solly's good books. Would you happen to have an idea of where and how I should start?"

"I would, yes."

"You're not about to suggest I buy her another motorbike, are you?"

She shook her head. "Not a motorbike, no. Just some nice clothes will do. Some _expensive_ nice clothes," she added.

"How expensive are we talking here?"

She paused to think, summing price tags in her head. "How about, I promise not to spend more than two thousand?"

"On a dress?!"

"Two dresses," she corrected, holding up two fingers. "With accessories to match. She needs whole outfits."

"Okay, but what the fuck kind of outfit costs _a thousand pounds_?" A new motorbike might be cheaper…

"The kind of outfit you wear when you meet the King," she said. "You _do_ remember, that's who's hosting the Midsummer Party?"

"Well, yes, of course I do, but…"

Her warning finger came out again. "But nothing. This is the first time any of us have ever been invited to one of the King's parties. You want her to make the best impression she possibly can. For all our sakes, not just hers." She scrunched her face. "And it's not as if you can't afford it. And you wouldn't complain if Erland was spending a thousand pounds on a suit. Stop being an asshole and give me the card."

He knew he was beaten; there was no point in arguing with her. "Fine," he said, pulling his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He thumbed around until he found the special black card—the one that every business owner in Edoras would kill to have a customer show them. He held it out to her. "Just try not to ruin us, please?" But he knew she wouldn't, and if it helped to make things right with his daughter, he would buy her as many expensive dresses as she wanted.

Smiling, she plucked the card from his fingers. "I'll be a model of financial prudence, I promise."

"Uh huh."

"What time will you be home?" she asked, tucking the card in a pocket.

"Usual time, I think. Can't see why we'd run over today. It's just the opening procedures. The real work starts tomorrow." Or, what passed for work in the Hall of Lords—it wasn't the most demanding of occupations.

"Text me if you're going to be late."

Out in the garage, he let himself into the car, taking a moment to make all the usual adjustments before he fired it up. He glanced at the Shadowfax, gleaming and immaculate, sitting in the corner on its side stand. It was a beautiful bike—his late mother's most treasured possession—but it was almost thirty years old.

Maybe buying Solwen another bike wasn't such a terrible idea after all. She'd never asked him for anything remotely expensive—she'd always been pretty low-key and self-sufficient that way. He'd bought Erland a car when he'd turned twenty-five, would probably buy Astalor one for that birthday as well, so why the hell not?

Except, what he knew about motorbikes, he could write on the back of a stamp. Where in the hell would he even start? What counted as a good bike these days? What were the hip and happening riding kids into? Crotch rockets? Cafe racers? Off roaders? Big shiny things with open exhausts?

His dad could probably help. He would ask Haradoc on Friday, when he went to Isendale for that meeting.

Actually, no. Not his dad. Someone here in town would know even more.

But his dad could at least give him Brendal's number…

Up in her room, Solwen heard someone going out the front door. Probably her dad, since Erland had already left, and Astalor was still in his room. She pressed the mute button on the TV, waiting to hear the familiar sound of her dad's car reversing and driving away. Once she was sure he was gone, she switched the TV off, jammed her feet into her slippers, grabbed her robe and headed downstairs.

She found Nediriel in the kitchen, clearing what was left of breakfast away. Her stepmother smiled as she saw her. "Was wondering when you might appear."

"I just didn't want to talk to dad," Solwen said. There was no point in trying to lie—Nediriel knew her well enough she would see right through it. "And I know that's probably not very helpful, but I'm not ready to thrash the apologies out just yet."

"If it's any help, your dad knows he was in the wrong. You won't need to thrash him to get an apology, trust me."

Solwen grabbed the coffee pot to swirl it, pleased to discover there was enough left for at least one cup. She grabbed a clean mug from the cupboard to fill it. "I figured that. And I won't keep him hanging, I promise. I'll talk it over with him later." And with Erland as well—let him finish what he'd started last night.

"Would you feel better if I told you, your dad's made a peace offering?"

"Depends what the offering is." She needed a new motorbike helmet, wouldn't object in the slightest if her dad felt guilty enough to buy one for her.

By way of an answer, Nediriel waved a credit card at her. And not just any credit card—the matte black, titanium card with her dad's full title and coat of arms embossed in gold on the front—the card with a _stupendously_ high credit limit that only the Earl and the Countess were ever authorized to use. With very good reason—they could literally buy a house with it. This wasn't just a peace offering, this was a complete and total surrender.

"That's… quite an offering," Solwen said, thinking of that new helmet again. Maybe the E model instead of the D. "Did he have something specific in mind?"

"Your father didn't." Nediriel grinned. "But I did."

The grin made Solwen tense. "What's that?"

Nediriel handed her a plate with some leftover fruit and a breakfast pastry on it. "I thought, maybe, if you didn't have other plans, we could go buy you a formal dress for the Midsummer party? And a less formal one for your date tomorrow?"

Shopping, Bema. She would honestly rather walk through Rohan Square naked than have to visit the kind of shops Nediriel was talking about. All those stuck-up sales assistants with the overdone makeup and the fake smiles. And all the fucking questions they asked—style, colour, size, mood. How could a dress have a _mood_ , of all things?

But she _did_ need a dress for the Midsummer party. And it wouldn't do any harm to have something new for tomorrow. And if she had to do it, better to have Nediriel's help than to go it alone. Nediriel could translate what she wanted into sales assistant-speak for her.

And it wasn't as if she had other plans. Unless daytime television and napping counted as plans.

Smiling, Solwen nodded. "Let's go do some shopping. Buy me a couple of outfits. Get it done and out of the way."

"And maybe go for lunch at The Willow Room after?"

The Willow Room? Bema. Talk about pulling out all the stops? It wasn't really her kind of place—she could buy a whole meal at Garadon's for what they charged for a gin and tonic, and the waiters made the sales assistants look humble and unassuming—but if her dad was paying, why the hell not? And it had been a few years since she and Nediriel had spent much quality time together. "I think that would be lovely."

Nediriel's whole face lit up like she'd just been handed a winning lottery ticket. "You have your breakfast, I'm going to wash and get dressed. Shops don't open until ten, so there's no huge rush." She went to grab her phone. "I'll make a reservation at The Willow Room for twelve thirty. Should give us plenty of time to find you a couple of dresses. Oh, and I'll ask Caleon to drive us, I think. Then we can have a drink at lunch, and we won't have to worry about parking downtown." She hurried off, no doubt forming plans as she went.

Solwen smiled as she watched her stepmother go. If only everyone was so easy to please.

She spied The Edoras Times on the table. Picking up her coffee and plate, she strolled over to pull out a seat, snagging the paper as she sat down. She opened it up, flicking until she found the Announcements & Petitions section. And there it was, just as Henris had promised.

"The petitioner moreover requests she be acclaimed as the Heir of His Late Majesty, Theoden King, being the Heir lawfully begotten and born of the body of the aforementioned Princess," Solwen murmured, reading the final part of the text aloud. She was actually doing it. Thenwis was actually asking the Hall of Lords to recognize her as Theoden's heir. Talk about having balls?

She flicked back to the start of the paper. Nothing interesting on the front page. What she saw on page three made her heart lurch into her throat. Photos of the King, taking a corner at the Gleodream Circuit, lowsiding his beautiful bike, hurtling into the gravel trap at high speed. She knew he'd crashed from watching the news, but seeing the photos made it more real.

But from what she could see, the crash had been smooth—just falling over and sliding out. He would be sore for sure, banged and bruised in a few places, and his fancy suit was probably ruined, but nothing compared to what would have happened if he'd had a highside instead, gone over the handlebars onto the track. Those were the absolute worst—if you landed badly, not even a fancy airbag collar would save you.

And he couldn't be that badly hurt, if he hadn't cancelled their date tomorrow.

The bike was probably in worse shape than he was. The 'foot would need new fairings for sure, and probably some new parts as well—the slide would have bent and scraped the crap out of everything on the left side. But that type of damage was easy to fix. As long as the forks and frame were good, and the engine casing hadn't cracked, Brendal should be able to put her back together no problem.

There were _so_ many questions she wanted to ask.

For more than the usual reasons, tomorrow night couldn't come quickly enough…


	53. Chapter 53

**Tuesday June 9, 2020**

Fenbrand checked his watch again—two minutes to eleven.

The King's audience with the Prime Minister was about to come to an end. It wouldn't run over; it never did. They were both extremely busy people, with schedules arranged down to the minute. And he didn't know for sure, since the King had never told him directly, but Fenbrand's impression was that neither he nor Rowena Harbrand much enjoyed their little chats.

But it was something they had to do, for duty as much as tradition. Every Tuesday at ten o'clock, whenever the House and Hall were in session.

Fenbrand turned to the man at his side. He looked calm but the constant fidgeting gave him away. He couldn't blame Connet for feeling nervous—it wasn't every day you were introduced to the King. "Remember your protocol," he murmured. "Small bow, wait for him to address you first, 'Your Majesty' on the first response, 'sir' after that. Keep your answers short and simple, don't ask questions, don't pretend to know something you don't, don't provide an opinion unless he asks for it." He smiled, saving the most disturbing advice for last. "And don't worry if he seems rather _volcanic_."

Panic flashed on Connet's face. "He's not going to be angry, is he?"

"Angry would be too strong a word. But the King"—how to safely say what he wanted to say—"the King is a man of feelings. And he's not always _terribly_ good at keeping those feelings to himself. You're going to see a side of him very few people ever get to see."

Footsteps approached on the other side of the door. The meeting with the PM was done, the King was about to appear. Fenbrand moved a step to the side, straightening up, smoothing his coat, pleased to see his companion doing the same. So far, Connet had been a very quick learner—he might just be the one to take over from Fenbrand when he retired. Assuming the King liked him, of course. No matter how smart you were, that was still the main qualification.

The door swung in and the King appeared. He stepped out and pulled the door over behind him, hard enough to make the glass in a nearby display case shudder.

Oh, dear. That didn't bode well.

"Well, that was fun," was all the King said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but quickly closed it, frowning as he saw Fenbrand's companion.

Time to make the introductions. "Your Majesty, may I introduce you to Connet Rokewood?" Fenbrand said, turning to wave at the other man. "He's just joined my team, he's going to be helping me with the day-to-day tasks, so I'm having him shadow me for a few weeks, to help him get the lay of the land."

Connet swallowed, smiled nervously and stepped forward, starting to hold out a hand. At the last minute, the protocol reminder kicked in. He stopped, lightly brought his heels together and gave an awkward but passable bow. "Your Majesty," he said.

"Mister Rokewood," the King said, extending a hand. "How do you do?"

Connet took and shook the hand. "Very well, sir, thank you." Sticking to form, he didn't mirror the question.

"I'm not a big fan of the old, formal customs. I prefer to address people by their first names. Would you mind if I called you Connet instead?"

Connet blinked. "Not at all, sir, no."

Fenbrand could only assume Connet understood that was _strictly_ a one way arrangement…

"Connet," the King murmured. "Is that a Dunnish name?"

Connet nodded. "It is sir, yes. My mother is from Sharflow."

The King grinned. "Don't worry. We won't hold that against you."

"May I ask, sir, how the meeting with the Prime Minister went?" Fenbrand asked, trying to put them back on track.

The King snorted. "Would you like the honest answer, Fenbrand, or the polite one?"

Fenbrand could feel Connet blinking again. He was going to be doing a lot of that this week. "I assume that means the meeting wasn't as agreeable as you hoped it would be."

"Agreeable," the King repeated, sighing, shaking his head. "There's your way with words again." Smiling, he turned to Connet. "You're going to have to learn how to do that, you know," he said. "If you ever want to take over from Fenbrand, I mean. If you can't communicate the way he does, it won't ever work."

"Yes, sir," Connet murmured, obviously having absolutely no idea what on earth the King meant.

"You assume correctly," the King continued. "The meeting was… unsatisfactory," he added, showing a way with words of his own.

"Did the Prime Minister communicate her impression of Miss Colafell's petition, sir?" He couldn't just come out and ask what she'd said—that would be a massive breach of both protocol and confidentiality rules. When he and the King discussed these things, they had to dance around the edges instead.

The King's eyes flicked to Connet.

"It's quite alright, Your Majesty," Fenbrand said. "Connet has full security clearance, Algrin ran the check himself. And he's signed the usual non-disclosure agreements. He understands, anything you say is highly privileged information, not to be repeated under _any_ circumstances." And if he hadn't understood that point completely before, he would certainly understand it now.

Connet nodded, agreeing, but wisely said nothing.

"The Prime Minister did give me her _impression_ of Miss Colafell's petition, yes." He sighed. "She's not going to get involved."

"Really?"

Scowling, the King shook his head. "Not until she has to, at least. She's going to stay out of it completely until after the Hall of Lords is done playing with it."

That seemed slightly cowardly, but Fenbrand couldn't entirely blame her. Why worry about a problem another group of people might solve? "It's somewhat understandable, sir. No sense in trying to cross a bridge before you even come to it."

"Yes, except if she made it clear now she would just burn the bridge to the ground when she reached it, the Hall of Lords wouldn't waste time building the bloody thing in the first place," the King said, getting tetchy now. "Keveleok would realize, she's barking up a dead tree, tell Thenwis to stick her petition where the sun doesn't shine."

Yes, there was some logic in that. "You've done what you can, sir. It's out of our hands."

"Makes me wish we were still living in the pre-Constitution era," the King said, wincing as he shifted his sling. "Then I could just tell everyone what to do. Have everyone who annoys or disagrees with me killed."

"Your Majesty—" Fenbrand started, alarmed. Even for the King, this was _highly_ inappropriate language.

The King held up a hand. "Relax, Fenbrand. I'm _kidding_. I don't really want to have anyone killed." He smirked. "Not this week, at least."

In somebody's pocket, a cellphone buzzed. Just as Fenbrand was about to raise an admonishing brow at Connet, the King reached into his pocket to draw out his own phone. "Sorry," he said, flashing an apologetic smile. He swiped the screen, presumably refusing the call. Fenbrand didn't own a cell phone, had no idea how the foolish things worked.

"Now, where were we?" the King asked. He sighed. "My _beloved_ cousin's petition, yes."

"If the Prime Minister is staying out of it for now, sir, it might be time to publish our statement on the matter?"

The King nodded. "I think so, yes. Do you have something ready to go?"

"I have a provisional version ready, yes. I was waiting to see what would come out of your meeting today before I finalized it."

"Can you finish it, bring it to me when it's ready? If we send it out this afternoon, it can go in the papers tomorrow."

"Of course, sir, yes." Fenbrand looked to his companion. "Connet and I will deal with it now."

"Good man, thank you." The King checked his watch. "I have a phone call to make, then I'm heading to a lunch thing in the city, then another engagement straight after. I'll be back around five to change for my dinner event. Come see me then, I'll take a look at it?"

Fenbrand nodded. "We'll have it ready for you."

"Thank you." The King smiled, nodded at Connet and strode away.

Fenbrand waited until they had the corridor to themselves. "So, what did you make of that?" he murmured to his companion.

"I'm not entirely sure," Connet murmured back. "I was expecting something more…" He broke off, creasing his brows.

"Something grander?" Fenbrand offered.

Connet smiled. "Grander, yes. For a King, he seems awfully down-to-earth."

"He's never been one for the ceremonial side of the role. He understands it's important, part of the history and tradition, but he much prefers to get things done without any fuss. But he's still the King," Fenbrand warned. "Don't ever make the mistake of trying to be familiar with him, just because he's familiar with you. Unless he gives you a very clear indication it's absolutely safe to do so, that's a line you should _never_ cross."

"Of course, sir, yes."

"Oh, and one other thing."

"Yes?"

"The joke you just heard His Majesty make, about having people killed?"

Connet flashed a nervous smile. "I was going to ask about that."

"You're probably going to hear it a lot. It's a little alarming, but my advice is to simply ignore it. It's just his way of letting off steam." At least, Fenbrand assumed it was—when the King was in one of those moods, one could never be sure.

"Will he ever threaten to have _me_ killed, sir?"

"At some point, he might do, yes." Fenbrand patted Connet on the arm. "But when he does, take it as a good sign. It usually means he's decided he likes you."

Back in his office, Eomer closed the door and pulled out his phone.

Who the hell would be calling him at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday morning? Everyone who had this number was either in the Palace already, or knew not to call him during the day, when he was usually up to his eyeballs in work.

The call was from Seorsa's number. Interesting. He hadn't spoken to her for almost a month, not since his visit after the King Folca Cup. There were only two reasons she would be phoning him now—trying to hook up for sex, or because she had some inside gossip about the petition. Or, maybe she was just worried about him, calling to see how he was faring after the crash.

He checked the call, but she hadn't left a voicemail message. Which made him wonder, had she been calling with something about the petition—something she only wanted to tell him directly? But if that was the case, surely she would have left a short message just to let him know how important it was?

He hoped she wasn't trying to hook up. He wasn't interested in going that route, and not just because of the promise he'd made to Eowyn last week. He had something better to think about now—something that potentially had a future to it. He liked Seorsa—she was easy-going and down-to-earth, and their little flings had always been fun—but he was beginning to think he liked Solwen Hamelmark more. He hadn't been sure, until this morning, when he'd skimmed through his schedule for the day, and realized how much he was looking forward to having drinks with her later. It was going to be the high point of his day, maybe even of his whole week.

It was time to end his thing with Seorsa. Formally and completely, not just in his own head. But he didn't want to be too blunt about it. She might be hurt, and he cared about her enough that he didn't want to embarrass her or cause her pain. Her arsehole of a husband was doing plenty of that already.

He put his phone back in his pocket. He didn't have time to call her right now—his next meeting was in ten minutes. He would call her sometime next week, deal with it properly then.

The car was coming in ten minutes; time to wrap up and get her shit together.

She took a final look in the mirror. As always, Nediriel had done a great job, helping her to find something she liked, something that was both pretty and easy to wear. And more importantly, that wasn't too slutty for a first date. The bodice was clingy, but not distractingly so, and the long, loose skirt hung to just above her knees—a suitably ladylike length. The only slightly risqué point was the straps, but the cardigan would cover those. She even liked the colour—a patriotic shade of green that she personally thought looked great with her hair. The cardigan was a creamy grey (or a greyish cream—whatever worked best), as were the shoes—a pair of ankle-strap canvas peeper sandals with a safety-conscious one inch heel. Her hair was loose, and she was wearing the green dichroic glass and silver necklace her dad had bought for her mum not long after they'd started dating.

She just wished the dress had pockets in it…

Pausing to grab her clutch—creamy grey again, and so small she could barely fit her phone, her credit card and her house keys in it—she headed downstairs, aiming for the family room at the back of the house, intending—hoping—to keep the obligatory fashion parade as brief as she could.

"I'm about to head out," she announced as she entered the room. She'd already decided she was going to walk to the top of the drive to wait for the car there. If it drove down to the front door, her dad would be able to see it. He'd apologized for Sunday night, promised again to keep his nose out of her private affairs, but she knew how hard that habit would be for him to break. The moment she stepped out the door, he would be at his office window, twitching the curtains as badly as Lady Darrock next door.

Grinning, Erland came towards her. "Would you look at that?" he said, shaking his head in amazement. "She _actually_ has a pair of legs."

"You can just fuck off," she said. "It's not too short, is it?" she asked as a beaming Nediriel approached. She felt utterly exposed, as if she was naked from the waist down, but she wasn't used to wearing something so open and loose on her lower half. She always wore trousers, even to work. It wouldn't be so bad if she could wear hose underneath, but it was too bloody warm for nylons today.

Nediriel shook her head. "Not at all. It's the perfect length."

"So, this is what my poor, abused credit card paid for, is it?" her dad said, rising from his seat to come check her out. Smiling, he gestured for her to turn around. She huffed, but did a quick pirouette. "Very nice," he said. "You actually look like a proper lady for once instead of some urchin we found on the street."

"You shut your mouth," Nediriel said, shooting a warning glare at her husband, making Erland snicker. "She looks amazing."

"I know she does. Didn't I just say that?" her dad protested.

"Not that I heard, no." Nediriel gestured at Solwen's feet. "How do the shoes feel?"

"Fine so far," Solwen said. Even she couldn't fall off heels this low. "But I'm sure they'll be rubbing somewhere by the end of the night." But it wasn't as if she would have far to walk—just to the end of the King's terrace and back. She checked her watch—five minutes to eight—she really needed to leave. "But I have to go now," she said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. "Don't want to be late."

"He's picking you up?" her dad asked, trying his hardest to sound nonchalant.

Solwen nodded. "In his car, yes." That wasn't really even a lie. The cars belonged to the Crown Estate, and the Crown Estate belonged to the King. In theory, at least—she might not want to rely on that claim in Court.

Her dad forced a smile. "Okay, well, have a good time. Be safe. Come home in one piece."

"Don't forget to fasten your condom," Erland added. He winced and slapped his hand to his head as Nediriel turned to give him an outraged look. " _Seat belt_. I meant don't forget to fasten your seat belt," he added. His quick wink and shit-eating grin told her exactly what he'd meant.

"Right. I'm off. I'll see you all later. Don't wait up." She turned to stride down the hall, heading out the front door to walk up the drive. She checked the time as she reached the road—two minutes to eight—the car should be here any second.

Sure enough, precisely two minutes later, a plain black car came into view, crawling along the road. The driver was probably trying to read the house numbers. She waved and smiled, letting the driver know she was his passenger for the night. The car sped up a little, then slowed to a stop right in front of the house. The windows were tinted—she couldn't see anything inside. She started to reach for the back door, then changed her mind, opting for the front seat instead. To her relief, the door wasn't locked. She climbed in, smiling, ready to apologize to the driver for doing something so different. To her surprise, the driver was a young woman—blonde, attractive, mid-to-late twenties, wearing an immaculate suit with the Crown Estate sigil on the left breast.

The woman blinked, then smiled politely. "Are you Lady Solwen, by any chance?"

"That's me, yes," Solwen said, smiling back. "And sorry for not getting in the back." How to explain what the hell she was doing? "It's just, my dad's probably watching, and he's a little bit nosy about where I'm going, so I'm trying to throw him off the scent."

The woman grinned. "Not a problem. If being up front makes things easier for you, I'm more than happy to help." She held out a hand. "I'm Yelisan. Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you."

Solwen took the hand to shake it. "Very nice to meet you, Yelisan. Nothing else I need right now." She waved at the road. "I'm ready to go when you are."

Duncan peered through the blinds, watching his daughter climb into the car. It was a standard, unmarked, black sedan—but a make and model that screamed government issue. Except, she'd gone to the front, not to the rear door. That would imply her date was the driver, not someone who'd sent their chauffeur to collect her, but the car itself was too damn suspicious. Did he work for the government? Did he drive people around for a living, and he was just borrowing the car for a few hours?

He wished the house was closer to the road—he might have been able to read the plate. He had a friend in the Ministry of Transportation who could probably check it for him.

The house across the way was closer. And they had a camera at the end of their drive. Except, getting the footage would mean talking to them. It had been a while since he'd last spoken to the people who lived in the house—he couldn't remember if he liked them or not.

"Duncan," Nediriel shouted along the hall.

"What?" he shouted back.

"Get away from that bloody window!"

Dammit. He thought he'd been sneaky, but obviously not sneaky enough. He tiptoed back into the hall. "I'm not at the window."

She snorted. "I suppose the blinds in your office were just rustling themselves, then?"

He'd forgotten how good her hearing was.

"And don't even _think_ about asking the people across the road to check their driveway camera footage for you."

 _And_ how goddamn smart she was.

His beautiful wife. A _hell_ of a woman.

Colwenna jumped as something heavy crashed to the floor. She set the shoes down and went to the door of the King's bedroom, taking care to stay firmly behind it. "Your Majesty, are you alright?" she called out.

Muttered cursing, in Sindarin, no less. That was never a good sign. "I'm fine, thank you, Colwenna," the King said. "Just trying to get dressed with one hand."

"Would you like me to have one of the valets come up to help you?" She was happy to set out his suits and unlace his shoes, but she drew the line at doing anything that might lead her to seeing him in even a partial state of undress.

"Absolutely not." More Sindarin curses, louder this time.

"Are you sure?" She checked the time. "It's almost ten past eight. You don't want to keep Lady Solwen waiting."

"I don't need someone to help me pull my underwear on," he snapped. "If I can't do that on my own, I might as well just kill myself now."

King of Rohan, King of Exaggeration and Drama. "Very good, sir. Your shoes are waiting for you out here. I chose a pair with velcro fasteners, so you won't need to lace anything up."

"Colwenna, what would I ever do without you?" he said in a more humble tone.

What indeed? Arrange his own bloody love life, for one…

"May I ask, how long have you worked at the Palace?" Solwen said as Yelisan pulled into the road.

"Just over six months."

"Getting used to finding your way around?" Edoras was a fairly large city, and it didn't have the most logical of layouts—it was an easy place to get lost in.

Yelisan smiled. "More or less, yes. All the cars have GPS units in them," she said, tapping the dash. "That really helps."

"I'll be honest, I was surprised to see you were a woman. Every official driver I've ever seen here has been a man."

Yelisan slowed at a narrow point to let an oncoming car pass. "There's a few of us. Not many, but we're a good start. They told me, at the job interview, that the King wants the Palace workforce to be more diverse, so they're making a point of hiring more women."

Given how hard he'd pushed for the change to a gender neutral succession, that seemed like the kind of thing Eomer would do. "Have you ever met him? The King, I mean?"

"Not yet, no. I'm far too junior for that. It'll be a very long time before I have His Majesty in the back seat, I think."

"Or the front."

Yelisan laughed. "Or the front, yes."

They came to the junction at Citadel Drive and took a right to go up the hill. As they neared the main gate, Solwen's heart started to pound. She didn't know why. She'd been here twice before already—this should be almost routine by now. Although, this was her first time making the trip for such a 'personal' appointment.

The guards opened the gate to wave the car through without so much as a second look.

"They don't need to see who you have inside?" Solwen said.

Yelisan shook her head, pointing to a metallic sticker on the windshield. "The tag tells them the car is safe, and that anyone inside is to be allowed through without being questioned." She shrugged. "It's like a diplomatic pass."

That was a compliment, she guessed. "I'll remember that if I ever feel the urge to break into the Palace."

Yelisan grinned. "Are you coming for something nice? At the Palace, I mean?"

Bema, how to answer that? Yelisan probably shouldn't have asked, but Solwen knew she meant no harm. And it was sort of her own fault—she was the one who'd sat in the front. "Nothing fancy. I'm just having a meeting with Colwenna." Not really a lie, on either count.

"Right, yes. The request to collect you came from her, so that makes sense. Do you know her well?"

"Not really. This will only be the second time I've met her." Again, the truth—she was beginning to understand how her dad managed to be a politician.

Yelisan leaned over to whisper, "Just so you know, everyone in the Palace calls her The Boss. She's very nice, but not the kind of woman you want to mess with."

Wasn't that the goddamn truth?

They passed through the inner gate just as easily as the first, heading onto the narrow road Solwen already knew led to the garage—the road she and Brendal had walked down the day she'd come to collect her bike. And Bema, why did that seem like almost a lifetime ago?

The car pulled up at the garage door. The yard outside was still full of vehicles, but this time, all parked and locked up for the night. There was nobody here, that she could see. But it was past eight on a Tuesday night—most of the staff would have long since gone home. Fortunately, the lights in the garage were still on—she wouldn't have to wait for Colwenna in the dark.

Solwen pulled the handle to let herself out. "Thank you for collecting me, Yelisan. It was lovely to meet you. You have a good night."

"Lovely to meet you, too, milady. Enjoy your meeting with Colwenna."

Solwen closed the door and turned to walk up the ramp. She checked her watch—it was eight minutes past eight. Colwenna should be here any moment.

She wandered into the bay at the end—the one where they kept the King's bikes. What she saw there made her heart drop into feet and tears well in her eyes. The Firefoot, or what was left of it. She walked over to circle around it, groaning at what she saw. The whole left side was utterly trashed. The mirror was gone, the handlebar and clutch lever were bashed and scraped to shit. The gear rest was bent, the gear shifter was missing completely—it must have snapped off when the bike hit the ground. But the worst damage was to the fairing—huge splinters of it were missing (no doubt scattered across the gravel trap at the track) and what was left was shredded and cracked. But nothing underneath looked damaged—no warping or cracks in the trellis frame or the casing. That she could see, at least—there could be damage inside, not obvious to the naked eye. The wheels seemed fine, except for some splashes of red on the front one that looked like blood, of all things. But whose blood could it possibly be? Not the King's, surely?

"A bit of a mess, isn't she?" a familiar voice behind her said.

She turned to see Brendal coming out of his office. "The fuck are you doing here?" she said.

"I _do_ work here, remember?"

"Aye, but it's eight o'clock on a Tuesday night. Don't you have a home of some kind to go to? Some beer to drink? A favourite TV program to watch?"

He shrugged. "Not really no." He grinned and pointed at her. "The more interesting question is, what the fuck are _you_ doing here?"

"I don't think that's any of your business," she said, more tartly than she'd intended.

"You're meeting with the King again, aren't you?"

"What if I am?"

"But it's just a social thing between friends, right? Just two people casually getting to know each other," he said, throwing her words from the lunch back at her.

"You can fuck right off whenever you want."

" _Language_ , milady," he said, tutting. "You can't kiss a King with a mouth as filthy as that."

"I'm just here to have drinks with him. I'm not kissing anyone."

"Uh huh."

She turned to gesture at the 'foot, eager to change the subject again. "Will you be able to fix her?"

"Don't know for sure yet," he said, coming to stand beside her. "I think it's mostly cosmetic, just a case of replacing some parts, but I want to check the frame isn't damaged. I’m taking her to a place in town tomorrow, a specialist shop that works with some of the GP teams. They've got this fancy x-ray scanner thing, they can check the frame and forks for twisting and warping, should show up any cracks in the engine as well."

"It was just a lowside into gravel. Wouldn't think you'd have to worry about that kind of thing."

"Aye, but she hit the tire barrier at a fair speed. There's no telling what damage that did. And for obvious reasons, I'd like to be absolutely sure. Don't want the King of Rohan riding a bike that's not completely safe to be ridden."

"That's fair." She realized then, something that hadn't occurred to her before. "You must have been there when it happened. At the circuit, I mean." She couldn't imagine the King would have taken the Firefoot racing and not had Brendal with him.

"I was, aye."

"You saw the crash then?"

"Not firsthand, but I was in the garage, watching his laps on the computer." He tapped the remains of what looked like a clip-on portable camera unit—it hadn't fared well in the crash. "We always record his laps, partly for security purposes, but also so His Majesty can review them all later."

"Can't imagine it was an easy moment. When you saw he'd gone down."

"Scariest moment of my fucking life," he said. "I'd just made a cup of tea, stood up so hard I fucking dropped it all down my front." He leaned in to whisper, "And Fastmer said the c-word."

Fastmer. The King's serious-looking bodyguard, right. "Is that bad? For him, I mean. Because the c-word's like punctuation where I come from." Which was where Brendal came from as well.

"For Fastmer?" He nodded. "Aye, lassie, that's bad. I mean, he'll drop an f-bomb when he's _really_ upset. But a c-bomb?" He winced. "That's like the nuclear option for him."

"Must have been quite frightening for him. Keeping the King alive is his job."

"He was out of that garage like greased weasel shit off a hot fucking shovel. I've never seen anyone move so fast in my life."

"But he was okay? The King, I mean. Not Fastmer. They said on the news his injuries were fairly minor."

"He's fine, aye. Just a bit shaken up. Knackered his left shoulder, though." He grinned and flashed his brows. "You'll have to go easy on him."

"Brendal, for both our sakes, I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." She wasn't offended—she was just trying not to think about sex. Erland knew her inclinations better than she liked to admit. She wanted this to be a romantic date—talking and getting to know each other, admiring the view out over the city. And yes, maybe, if the mood was right, some soft, tender kisses as well.

Behind them, a woman gently cleared her throat. They turned to find Colwenna waiting, smiling politely. "Lady Solwen, good evening," she said. "Apologies for keeping you waiting. The King was delayed getting ready." She turned to wave at the door. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you the way."

Solwen prayed to all the Gods Colwenna hadn't heard Brendal's last comment. From the 'kill me now' look in his eyes, so did Brendal as well.

"Talk soon," she said. "Best of luck with the 'foot."

Colwenna decided, right there and then, she was going to wear a bell when she had to come to the garage.

She would ring it as soon as she got to the door, warn everyone on the other side someone was about to arrive. Maybe then, she wouldn't accidentally overhear the most wildly improper remarks. And why oh why, did it always seem to be Brendal behind them? He should count himself lucky the King was so fond of him. She would kick the man out the front door and all the way down Citadel Drive, just to teach him some bloody manners.

At least this time, Lady Solwen's response had been more polite. There was hope for the girl yet.

She pressed the button to summon the elevator, turning to smile at her guest. "You look lovely tonight." And she wasn't saying that just to be nice. The outfit was perfect for the occasion—pretty and tasteful in equal measure. And a beautiful colour as well—it really brought out the blue in her eyes.

"Thank you," Lady Solwen said, smiling back. She looked down, smoothing the skirt. "My stepmother helped me to pick it out. She has much better taste in clothes than I do, so it's really her who deserves all the praise."

So, she'd bought something just for tonight? Colwenna put another tick in the young lady's plus points column. At this rate, it wouldn't be long before she actually started to like her.

The elevator arrived; Colwenna held the door to wave her guest in, followed her, held her thumb to the security scanner and pressed the button for the top floor. "Did you go somewhere nice? For the dress, I mean?" she asked.

"To Peller & Hill."

Bema. That wasn't just nice—that was the most expensive store in all of Rohan. Her family must be well off, if she could afford to shop in a place like that.

"Can I ask, how the King is?" Lady Solwen said. "They said on the news he was hurt, but I guess from the fact he didn't cancel tonight, he wasn't hurt too badly."

The maelstrom of feelings the question triggered. Mostly fear, tinged with anger and panic. Colwenna never, _ever_ wanted to take a phone call like that _ever_ again. "He's perfectly well. Bruised and sore, and he hurt his shoulder, so he'll have his arm in a sling for a couple of weeks, but no permanent damage."

"It must have been quite worrying for you."

The elevator reached the top floor. "It was a stressful morning for us, yes." And that was as much as she wanted to say on the matter right now, especially to a young woman she barely knew. If she was going to unload her feelings about the King's crash, she would do it to Seonell, over a glass or three of that port.

She opened the door and waved her guest out, following behind to guide her through the corners and halls, until they reached the heavy door that led out to the King's terrace. She held her thumb to the scanner again, waiting for the click of the lock. "His Majesty is waiting for you," she said, showing a final smile. "Enjoy your evening."


	54. Chapter 54

Palms sweating, heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest, Solwen pushed through the door.

Apart from a table for two, tastefully set with drinks and various snacks, the terrace was empty. Where the hell had His Blessed Majesty gone?

She took two steps, and found him then, standing at the balustrade, his back to her, gazing out over the city. He was wearing a smart pair of jeans—Eored brand, based on the pocket stitching pattern—a pair of white and light blue sneakers and a casual, form-fitting light blue shirt, hanging out instead of tucked in. Over the shirt lay a padded white strap, running diagonally from his right shoulder to his left arm. That would be the sling Colwenna had mentioned.

She cleared her throat. He turned, startled at first, smiling warmly as he saw her.

Eru, that _smile_. In the space of a second, all the resolutions she'd made about not sleeping with him on the first date scattered into the western wind. If he smiled at her like that again, showing those lovely crinkles and dimples, she was going to whip off her panties and throw them right at him.

"Hi," he said, coming towards her.

What to do now? Offer to shake his hand? Give him a curtsy, or some kind of bow? Fuck it. She hadn't pulled a bow or a curtsy the last time they'd met—no point in trying one now. She settled for saying 'Hi," instead. Her eyes immediately went to his arm, drawn up against his chest in a light canvas sling. She gestured at it. "I was just about to ask how you are, but I think that might be a silly question."

He showed her a rueful smile. "Just a little souvenir from my crash," he said, shrugging only with his good shoulder. "Nothing much to worry about."

"I saw the photos in yesterday's paper," she said, moving a little closer. "It didn't look like nothing much to worry about to me."

"I'd be a liar if I said it didn't hurt when it happened, gravel's a lot harder and bumpier than it looks, but all things considered, it could have been a lot worse."

"You didn't pull a highside, at least."

"Exactly." He gestured at her dress. "You look lovely tonight." He smiled. "And such a patriotic colour, as well."

"I'd like to say it was a deliberate choice, but the store only had it in two colours. It was either this or a shade of pink called cotton candy." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not really a cotton candy kind of girl." Even Nediriel—a woman who loved delicate, feminine colours—had agreed, putting the pink dress back on the rack with an alacrity that had shocked the saleswoman.

"I can't see you wearing pink, no. Best to stick with the Rohan green, I think." He turned to gesture at the table. "Can I get you something to drink?" he said.

"Yes, please. I'll take a white wine if you have it." She set her purse on a chair by the door. She didn't want to have to hold the damn thing, and it wasn't as if someone up here would steal it.

"Of course." She followed him as he went to the table to pull a bottle out of a cooler bucket. Using one hand, he poured out two glasses, handed one to her and kept the other one for himself. "What should we drink to tonight?" he said, raising his glass.

"The last time we did this, I said an open road and good traction control, but that doesn't appear to have worked"—she waved her glass at his sling—"so maybe you should come up with something this time instead."

"In my defense, the crash wasn't really a traction issue."

"What on earth caused it then?" Something she'd meant to ask Brendal.

"A squirrel."

"Sorry?"

He sipped his wine, the toast forgotten. "I was just coming out of the curve, was about to open the throttle, a prairie squirrel popped out of the ground next to the track, ran right through my front wheel."

That explained the bloodstains she'd seen. Not his, just a tiny squirrel's. And a tiny ex-squirrel's at that—the speed that wheel would have been turning at, the poor thing would have been minced to death in the blink of an eye. "If it's any comfort, I'm sure the squirrel's regretting its choices as much as you are."

He snorted. "In the squirrel afterlife, maybe."

"I saw the Firefoot. Down in the garage. She's pretty bashed up."

He swirled his wine, sighing the mother of all gloomy sighs. "She took a fair bit of damage, yeah. Kinda broke my heart a bit just looking at her."

In hindsight, her comment might not have been the best thing to say—the Firefoot was probably one of if not his most prized possessions. "Brendal seems pretty confident he can fix her," she offered. "I'm sure he'll have her back up and running in no time at all."

"You spoke to him?"

She nodded. "When I arrived, down in the garage, yes."

He frowned. "And he was still there? At this time of night?"

"I actually mentioned that. Asked him if he didn't have a home to go to."

He smiled that smile of his again; her underwear started to itch. "I think Brendal's one of those people who lives to work instead of working to live," he said. "I don't think he worries too much about when he clocks in or out. And I'm pretty sure he's slept in his office a couple of times."

"To be fair, he does have a really interesting job. I'm sure he'd be better at clocking in and out if he had to be an accountant instead."

"I think if Brendal had to be an accountant, he would probably shoot himself."

"Can't say I'd blame him. So would I."

Grinning, he beckoned her to the end of the terrace. "Let's go check out the view. I promise, it'll make your whole night."

She followed him to the balustrade, heart leaping into her throat as she saw the view out over the city—a sunset-tinted canvas scattered with lights of all sizes and colours, some chaotic and moving, some tranquil and still. Street lights, car lights, traffic lights cycling from red to orange to green, the uplights on the House of Commons, the downlights on the Hall of Lords, the fountain lights in Hornburg Park, the checkerboard lights of the skyscrapers down in the business district, even the blinking green and red lights of the radio tower on Signal Hill. And the sound—a muddled, discordant cacophony of voices and music and cars, of garbage trucks and ambulance sirens. The sound of a living, breathing city, the sound of thousands of people going about their everyday lives. She closed her eyes, drinking it in. "I love this sound," she said.

"Which one?"

"All of them," she said. "The whole thing. Just the sound of being in a city. All the noise people make. There's no other sound in the world quite like it."

"Interesting."

She turned to him, opening her eyes. "How so?"

"I wouldn't have thought you were a big city girl. I had you down as someone who prefers the peace and quiet of the country."

What on earth could have given him that idea, she wondered? "I love peace and quiet, don't get me wrong. And this kind of noise"—she gestured at the city—"drives me nuts under the wrong circumstances." Like when some asshole with his stereo jacked up full idled his car outside her house at three in the morning for half an hour—she wanted to get the shotgun out then. "But you only get this kind of noise somewhere there are lots of people. And cities with lots of people in them are usually really interesting places." She leaned over to whisper, "Don't ever tell my dad I said this, he'd probably disinherit me on the spot, but I can't stay at the Isendale house for long. It's absolutely beautiful, one of the most peaceful places on the whole planet, but it's kind of in the middle of nowhere. After a few weeks, it gets _screamingly_ dull."

"No nightclubs at the end of the road, then?"

She snorted. "No _nothing_ at the end of the road. You have to drive a fair way just to find a store or a half-decent pub." She remembered then, something he'd mentioned at their last meeting. "That reminds me. When we had lunch, you told me you were planning to go to the March for Midsummer. Did you ever do anything about that?"

He smiled as he nodded. "I certainly did."

"And?"

"And, I've booked a house for the whole of July. In Isendale. In a suburb in the northwest. I took your advice about the location, sent my people to find something for me."

"Do you know where, specifically?" Hastily, she added, "But you don't have to tell me. If it's a security issue, I mean."

"No security issue, no. I don't remember exactly, but I know it's a house on a lake."

Her glass froze halfway to her mouth. "A _lake_?" she repeated. Surely not; it was _highly_ unlikely. There were several lakes in the northwest suburbs. He could be going to any one of them.

He nodded. "I like to swim in the morning, figured a lake would be better than any pool."

She wasn't sure she agreed with him there—at least swimming pools didn't have slimy living things in them. "A big lake or a wee one?"

"I think Algrin said there were six houses on it? Or seven? I don't quite remember." He turned to wave at a set of doors, which Solwen assumed led into his rooms. "I have the paperwork inside. If you want to see it, I can bring it to you."

"Only if it's not any trouble. I'm just curious about where you're going."

"No trouble at all." He placed his glass on the wall. "Wait here. Be right back." He strode across the terrace, opened one of the doors and disappeared inside. He was back barely a minute later, carrying two folded up pieces of paper. He held them out as he approached. "This is it," he said.

Setting her own glass down, she took the pieces of paper from him to open them up. One was a listing for a house, the other a map of a lake. As she saw the map, she started to giggle. She clamped a hand across her mouth.

He made a pained noise, letting his shoulders slump. "There's something wrong with the house, isn't there? I just rented a place that's full of mould, or where a cult once held a human sacrifice in the basement, didn't I?"

"Oh, no," she said, waving his worry away, still trying to smother her grin. "There's nothing wrong with the house at all. It's an amazing place. You're going to love it." She always had. Especially the rug in the main room. She'd always wondered what it would be like to make love on it.

"You've been in it?"

"Several times, yes."

"You must know the owners, then."

She bit her lip. "You, um, you could say that, yes."

He narrowed his eyes. "Okay, why do I get the feeling I'm being left out of some kind of joke?"

"No joke, Your Majesty, I promise." She turned to lay the map on the wall. "This is the lake, right? And this is the house you've rented right here?" she said, pointing to a parcel of land halfway up the lake's west side.

"Uh huh?"

"See how most of the houses are clustered around the south end, because the north half of the lake is one huge estate?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you care to take a guess as to who owns that huge estate?"

He frowned, trying to figure the puzzle out, then groaned and leaned his head back to look at the sky. "You do."

"My father does, but the point is the same."

"So, without even knowing, I rented a house for Midsummer that just happens to share a lake with the Hamelmark holding?"

Grinning, she nodded. "You certainly did."

"Are you going to your holding for the Midsummer break?"

"I certainly am." Nobody who was anybody stayed in Edoras over Midsummer. She wasn't the classiest person in the world, but even she had her limits. "We all are."

He cast suspicious eyes at her. "If it wasn't for the fact I know it's absolutely impossible, I would think you were stitching me up."

"No stitch up, I promise." She shrugged as she reclaimed her glass. "Just think of it as a happy coincidence." And potentially a useful one. Assuming they were still doing whatever this was by then. Meeting? Socializing? Dating? Was dating the right word to use yet? She wasn't quite sure.

"I don't believe in coincidences," he said. "In my experience, they're usually just an enemy plan in disguise."

"We're not your enemies, sir. I mean, we might not always be the most gushingly loyal of subjects"—as Cenefer Elgoll had pointed out—"but that doesn't mean any of us have it in for you. We're not going to row across the lake at three in the morning one night with a Mordorian kill squad in the back of our boat, I promise."

Sighing, he took the pieces of paper from her, folded them up and stuck them in his back pocket. "You better be quiet neighbours," he warned. "You keep me awake through the night, I might have to send out a couple of kill squads of my own."

If she was going to keep him awake through the night, it would be with something far more enjoyable than noise. But best not to have those thoughts just yet. Tonight was supposed to be classy. "No promises, but we'll do our best. I'll warn everyone not to go water-skiing at two in the morning." Although, in their defense, they had actually only done that one time…

"Appreciate that, thank you."

She realized then, how close she was standing to him. Close enough she could feel the body heat coming off him. Close enough she could _smell_ him. She caught a whiff of his aftershave—something light and simple and clean, with hints of citrus and grass—the kind of scent she could close her eyes and lose herself in. It was rather distracting. Why did her cheeks feel so warm? Why the hell was her mouth so dry?

She raised her glass to sip on her wine, trying to use the motion to step away slightly. As she lowered her glass, she realized he was staring at her. Not in an angry or judging way—in a pensive, curious way, as if he was trying to calculate something—but it was still rather strange. Did she have something stuck on her face, and he was trying to politely figure out how to tell her?

A soft smile curled on his lips, he moved forward, closing the gap between them again. What the fuck was His Majesty up to now? Before she could ask, he leaned in, gently pressing his lips to hers. Mother of goddamn fucking Bema. Sighing, trying not to groan, she melted against him, fighting the urge to grab a fistful of shirt to yank him in close. His mouth was gentle, his skin was soft, his breath was warm on her cheek and he tasted as good as he smelled. He deepened the kiss, drawing her in, raising his hand to cup her face. Every muscle between her sternum and her knees quivered.

She reached out with her right hand, trying to find the balustrade to set her glass down. She felt the glass settle on something solid and let it go. But not quite solid enough. The glass tipped over, crack against the hard stone and start to roll. She broke the kiss, crying out, reaching for the glass a moment too late, just as it trundled over the edge. She lurched to the balustrade, watching the glass fall into the darkness, hearing it shatter and scatter across the tumbling rocks below. At least it was only rocks at this point—she hadn't just dropped a razor-sharp missile on some poor Crown Estate worker's head.

He came to stand beside her, leaning over, watching as well. "Wow," he said, raising his brows. "Eadom Crystal _really_ smashes."

Eadom Crystal, oh Gods. That was expensive stuff—the glass had probably cost a few hundred pounds. Couldn't he serve her wine in something cheap and easy instead? A plastic sippy cup, maybe? "I'm so sorry. I must have set it down wrong." She ran her hand over the balustrade surface, finding it wasn't as flat as it looked, but sloped up to a ridge in the middle. "I can buy you a replacement," she offered.

"You're fine," he said, waving her offer away. "Got cupboards full of the bloody things." He heaved a censuring sigh. "But if you didn't like the wine, you just had to say. I would have asked Colwenna to bring us a different bottle. No need to be so dramatic about it."

"I was _surprised_ ," she said, through gritted teeth.

"Sorry," he said with a bashful smile that made her innards shiver. "I, uh…" he took a small step closer again. "I just really, _really_ wanted to kiss you," he said.

"I didn't mind. You could just have given me some warning."

"Where's the fun in that?" He cast his gaze over her again, eyes narrowing slightly, one side of his mouth curling up, then sighed and turned to gesture at the table. "Let's get you some more wine," he said.

She didn't want some more bloody wine. She wanted him to kiss her again. Of all the moments to knock over a glass. Although, given the state her innards were in—trying to decide if they wanted to liquify or burst into flames—maybe a pause for air was a good idea. She took a deep breath, ordering her unruly lady parts to behave. This was _not_ how one conducted oneself when one was having drinks with the King.

She followed him back to the table, planning to sample the snacks Colwenna had put out for them. She noticed a gap in the terrace wall—a quick peek out showed a deep set of stairs, presumably leading down to another level. "Where does that go?" she said, her curiosity getting the better of her.

He turned to see where she was pointing. "To the ramparts," he said.

"There are _ramparts_?" But it made sense, once she'd thought about it—the complex was almost five hundred years old, and life in Edoras hadn't always been as civilized as it was now.

"It's more of a walkway now, but yes, that's what it used to be." He grinned as he brought her a fresh glass of wine. "Where they poured the boiling oil all over the people who tried to attack by climbing the cliffs."

"How far does it go?" She couldn't see much beyond the end of the stairs.

He made a wide circling motion. "The whole way around. Out to the edge of the bluff over there"—he pointed to a jagged shadow in the distance, then traced a semi-circle around to the left—"then back to the other side of the complex. It comes out next to the Golden Hall."

"And it's walkable?" she asked. "Like, it's not all crumbled and ruined?"

"Perfectly walkable." He took a swig of his wine. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but it's actually a completely functional part of the Palace security system. There's a gate a few hundred metres along, with a spiral staircase behind it, it takes you down to a hidden road at the back of the main level."

"Ooh, so like a secret way in and out of the Palace?" she said.

He nodded. "It's called the Sovereign's Door. Only I'm allowed to use it." He winked and tapped the side of his nose. "Very hush hush. Only a handful of people in the Palace know it even exists."

"And you just told _me_ about it?"

He did the one-sided shrug thing again. "I trust you."

Which was… nice, she supposed? But also a _tiny_ bit improper as well? In the grand scheme of things, he didn't really know her from Bema.

"Any chance you could take me to see it?" she said. "The Sovereign's Door, I mean?" It was one of the reasons she'd always loved exploring old buildings—finding all of the secret stairways and hidden rooms. The house in Isendale had a few. A structure of the Meduseld's size and age was probably riddled with them.

"I can't let you go through it. Not without involving my security and protection teams, which I'm sure you'll understand, I'd rather not do."

"Of course."

"But I _can_ show it to you." He raised a warning finger. "As long as you promise to walk only where I tell you to walk. You get too close, or stand in the wrong place, you'll activate the heat and motion sensors."

"I'm going to assume that would be a bad thing."

"Very."

"I'd have an armed response unit dropping on to me out of a helicopter?"

He snickered. "Not _quite_ that bad, but pretty close, yes."

"If it's too much bother, don't worry about it. I don't want to cause anyone any trouble." Least of all the Fastmer guy—he seemed like the kind of man only an idiot would annoy…

He shook his head and put down his glass. "It should be fine, as long as we're careful." His face lit up. "And I can show you King Fengel's Folly on the way back."

"I'm sorry, King Fengel's _what_?"

He took her glass from her to set it down on the table. "Come on, I'll show you," he said, taking her hand to lead her on. His skin was warm and smooth against hers; she was profoundly glad her palms had stopped sweating.

As they reached the top of the stairs, a light halfway down came on—motion activated she guessed. She was glad to have it; the stairs were quite steep. Another light came on at the bottom, revealing a walkway stretching out ahead of them into the night. As they strolled—her hand still in his—the walkway lit up, metre by metre. The lights guided them down another short set of stairs, around a jutting mass of rock, up a short, curving slope, past what looked like a small ruined building and up to a modern, high-tech, reinforced gate, armed with every kind of device a security team could think of—jutting spikes at the top, razor wire around the sides, a sturdy bio-lock in the middle, two tracking cameras and several smaller camera-type things she assumed were the heat and motion sensors he'd mentioned. She hoped the heat sensors weren't picking her up—her lady parts probably looked like the insides of Mount Doom.

He tugged on her hand, forcing her to come to a stop. "Don't go over that line," he said, pointing back and forth along a noticeable gap in the stone a few feet away. "That's where the field of vision for the cameras starts."

"And is that where all the sensors kick in?"

He shook his head. "That's a couple of feet further on. There's a red line marked in the path, it's really easy to see. But they only come on when they're activated. The cameras are always on," he said, pointing at each unit in turn. He grinned. "And I'd rather not give the guys down in the security room something new to gossip about."

"Yeah, me neither," she said, reflexively taking a half-step away. She craned her neck, trying to see what was beyond the gate, but without any light, there wasn't much to make out.

He turned away, pulling her hand. "That's as much as I can show you of the Sovereign's Door. Let's go back and look at the Folly."

Down in the security room, three levels below the King's floor, something on one of the monitors moved.

Godhild reached out, stabbing a button to bring up the feed on the main display. The shot was of the path leading up to the Sovereign's Door, and to her surprise, the King was in it. And he wasn't alone; he had a young woman with him.

She leaned forward, jabbing a key to pause and zoom in on the image. She didn't recognize the woman. But she was with the King, on the walkway that could only be accessed from his terrace. At nine o'clock on a Tuesday night—not exactly normal visiting hours. And Bema, was she holding his _hand_?

This was inside gossip gold. But who the hell was the woman? Was it the same woman who'd had lunch with the King a few weeks ago—the one who'd arrived on a bike? Godhild hadn't been on duty that day, so hadn't seen the woman come in.

But Nedris had.

She leaned back in her chair. "Nedris!" she called into the room next door. "Can I borrow you for a second?"

Nedris duly appeared. "Something wrong?" she said, frowning as she came to the desk.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm just curious, do you know who that woman is?" Godhild asked, pointing at the main display.

Nedris's expression turned to stone. "You shouldn't be looking at this," she said stiffly. "It's none of our business. And we shouldn't even be able to see it. The cameras are out of alignment again." She stabbed a button to unfreeze the feed and re-calibrate the camera footing. The image moved down, cutting the King and his companion out of the shot.

Dammit. She'd meant to take a screen capture—too late for that now…

"Is that the woman who had lunch with the King? The one he met when he was out for his ride?" Godhild asked.

"I said, it's none of our business," Nedris repeated, her voice as frigid as it was firm. "Stop asking questions you know fine well you shouldn't ask." She turned on her heels, heading back to her own watch station next door.

Godhild rolled her eyes. Bloody Marchers, always so puckered about the rules. She didn't know why Fastmer hired so many of them…

Halfway back to the terrace, the King pulled Solwen off the main path, into the small, abandoned building she'd spotted on the way out. It was just a stone shell—no floor, windows or roof—but the walls were made from the same beautiful golden rock as the Palace. At some point in the not-too-distant past, this building had been somebody's home. Or, used at least, if not fully lived in. One wall had a massive fireplace in it—tall enough she could probably stand underneath it and look up what was left of the chimney. On the mantel above it, someone had carved a huge coat of arms. The details were worn with age and exposure, but she could just about make them out—the crowned horse of the House of Eorl, quartered with the stone and wheat sheaf symbol of Erech. She knew immediately whose house this was.

"Is this King Fengel's Folly?" she asked.

He nodded. "This is it, yes."

"Okay, but it's just the remains of a house. A Folly is usually some kind of ornamental building with no practical purpose." She let go of his hand to gesture around. "It's pretty small, but it's completely practical." There was even a drain in the floor in the corner, presumably where they would have plumbed in a toilet of sorts.

"Not folly in the architectural sense. Folly in the _behavioural_ sense."

"Oh, so this is where he did something naughty?" she said.

"Very naughty." He jabbed a finger at the floor. "This is where my great-grandfather kept his mistress."

Now, the size made perfect sense—the building had been a one-person house. "With all due respect to your esteemed ancestor, Your Majesty, I'm quite sure he had more than one. I've read plenty of history books. I know what nickname everyone gave him."

A rakish grin spread over his face. "Fengel the Fornicator."

"That's not the word I was thinking of."

He winced. "Yes, but Fengel the Fucker isn't something one should really say in polite company, is it?"

"I'm not sure Fengel the Fornicator is any better." She stepped forward to peek out the front door, gesturing at the just visible terrace. "So, he kept his mistress out here, and nipped out to see her whenever he wanted to get his end in."

"I wouldn't put it so crudely, but yes."

"Can't imagine his wife approved."

"His was a political marriage." He let out a sigh, all humour gone now. "They had absolutely nothing in common, barely tolerated each other. I don't think his wife cared, if it meant he left her in peace."

"She was from Dale, wasn't she?" she asked, dredging up what she remembered from school. "Queen Veddis, I mean."

He nodded. "From Esgaroth, yes."

A place she had links to as well. "Did you know, that's where my mother was from?"

"Really? She wasn't Rohanese, then?"

Solwen shook her head. "Dalish born and bred. My dad met her when he was in Esgaroth for a business meeting." In a wine shop, of all places.

"I had no idea."

Hardly surprising—for all her father was a reasonably high-ranking earl, her family was still pretty obscure. She gestured up at the open sky. "So, what happened to the building? Why's it ruined?"

"My grandmother happened."

"Sorry?"

"When King Fengel died, his last mistress was still living here. When my grandfather returned to Rohan to take up the Crown, my grandmother turned the woman out, burned everything inside to the ground, had the building demolished." He pointed at the fireplace. "The fireplace is all that's left."

"That was rather harsh."

"She can be a rather harsh woman," he said. "Very moral. Has some pretty rigid ideas about how men and women should behave." The rakish grin reappeared. "Especially unmarried men and women."

"She'd probably be horrified that we're out here talking and we don't have a chaperone with us," she said.

"She'd think you were a woman of extremely low morals."

"She'd be right. I _am_ a woman of extremely low morals."

He blinked like a lizard. Oh, dear. She'd meant it as a joke, but it might have been the wrong thing to say. He stepped in close, so quickly, she almost took a reflexive step back. "Lady Solwen?" he said.

"What?" she asked, wondering what the hell she'd done now. Was he about to ask her to leave?

"I, uh, if you don't mind, I think I'd _really_ like to kiss you again," he said.

At least he was warning her this time. "I think I could maybe live with that," she said. Before he could move, she ran her hand up the front of his shirt and yanked his collar, pulling his mouth down to meet hers. His kiss was gentle at first, but quickly turned firmer, pushing for more. She opened her lips, skimming into his mouth with her tongue. He still tasted of wine. Her innards clenched again, heat pooled in her neck and chest and sank through her until it settled deep in her stomach. Groaning quietly into his mouth, she slipped her hand around his neck to pull him closer again. His good hand slipped around her waist, pulling her body hard against his, his fingers splaying across her back, slowly stroking her spine with his thumb. She pushed herself as close to him as she could, feeling the soft cotton of her skirt snagging against the rough fabric of his jeans. His belt buckle—hidden under his shirt—pressed into her stomach.

There was a low wall a few feet behind him. She wanted to push him against it, undo that buckle and let him fuck her into next week.

But she couldn't. Or shouldn't. This was just their first date. Or was it their second? Had the lunch been their first?

Actually, no, first date or not, they totally could—they were both consenting, single adults…

But consenting or not, they _really_ shouldn't…

Or should they?

Bema save her. She didn't have—would _never_ have—the willpower for this…

She carded her fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to tug it, and slipped her other hand under his shirt, finding soft, warm skin to caress. He shuddered slightly, the hand on her back dug into her dress, and he made a sound that was more than a sigh, but not quite a groan. He broke the kiss, but only to skim his lips across her check. He nipped at her ear and trailed hot kisses down her neck, then peeled the edge of her cardigan back to trail more across her collar bone to her shoulder.

She let the hand that was under the shirt fall to rest on the waistband of his jeans, hooking her fingers slightly inside, letting him know she was willing and ready to do whatever he wanted.

He pulled away slightly. "I, uh, I think we should probably stop," he murmured against her cheek, taking the hand she'd laid on his belt to pull it out from under his shirt.

"What if I don't want to stop?" she said. "What if I want you to strip me out of my dress, and do something so naughty to me, even your great-grandfather's ghost would blush with shame?"

He made the more-than-a-sigh sound again; the grip around her wrist tightened. "You have no idea how badly I want to take you up on that offer," he said, nuzzling her ear again, his voice hoarse and low. "But this is only our first date. I think it might be better if we took this a little bit slower."

The heat in her innards retreated enough for some cooling common sense to flood in. She sighed, stepping away. "You're right. It would. I'm sorry."

"Don't be offended. I just…" he broke off, cradling her face again, stroking a thumb across her cheek. "I want to do this properly. I, uh"—he swallowed thickly and licked his lips—"The thing is, I think I quite like you."

Quite like? Was that the best he could do? She was about to make a snarky retort when she realized how nervous he was. Even those few simple words had obviously been difficult for him. Snark was the last thing he needed right now. "Probably a good thing," she said. She took his hand, turning it over to trace her fingers across it. "I think I quite like you as well." Although, if she was being honest, the whole 'king' thing was a bloody pain. What she wouldn't give for him to just be a regular guy instead.

Smiling softly, he slipped a finger under her chin, tipped it up and leaned in to give her the gentlest, softest, most tender of kisses. It was hands down, the most romantic moment of her whole life.

Until her stomach emitted an ungodly wail.

He jerked back, blinking, scanning her up and down. "What the fuck was _that_?" he demanded.

Her stomach gurgled again; she clamped a hand to it, trying to make the damn thing shut up. "I'm sorry. You invited me up for drinks and snacks, so I didn't have a huge dinner." Another gurgle. She couldn't help it; she started to giggle.

"First the thing with the wine, now this?" he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "What the _hell_ kind of earl's daughter are you?"

"I'm _hungry_ ," she said, poking him in his good shoulder. "I just need to have something to eat." Something that wasn't him.

Sighing, he waved at the door. "Come on, then. Let's get back to the terrace, see what Colwenna put out for us."

At least this time, they'd managed to finish the kiss…

"I meant to ask, how did you get here tonight?" he asked as they strolled back to the stairs. "Did you just walk?"

"Actually, no. Colwenna sent a car to the house for me." As they reached the stairs, he held out his hand. She took it, not quite trusting herself in her heels. "I said I was happy to walk, but she told me it wasn't really the done thing."

"It isn't, no. Some of the staff arrive on foot, but guests of family members are always supposed to be driven in." At the top of the stairs, he guided her to the table again, pulling a chair out for her to sit before claiming the other one for himself.

She took a napkin and plate and started to fill the plate with some snacks. The smell of the food made her realize how hungry she was—no wonder her stomach had made such a racket. "And speaking of driving, did you know your chauffeur pool actually has women in it?" she said.

He nodded as he reclaimed his wine. "I did, yes." He grabbed a napkin and plate for himself. "It's something I've been trying to encourage. Giving women the chance to do jobs in the Household that were traditionally always done by men, and vice versa. And hiring people from more diverse backgrounds."

"People who didn't go to Harrowfax, you mean?" she said, naming the snobby, exclusive private school all the sons of the Landed Houses attended. Including His Blessed Majesty and his best friend.

He was having none of it. "Sorry, remind me again, which Second School you went to?"

"Rinsdale," she admitted. Where she and Elisend had met, almost sixteen years ago.

"Which, if I'm not mistaken, is actually more expensive than Harrowfax, yes?"

She bit through a cocktail sausage. "At least Rinsdale takes girls as well as boys. Harrowfax still seems to think being female and wanting an education is almost a capital crime."

He frowned. "Well, isn't it?"

"You're quite funny for a King, aren't you?"

Grinning, he said, "I take it your driver tonight was female, then. If you know our chauffeur pool has women in it."

"I did. A very nice young woman named Yelisan. She was extremely helpful." Not that she'd had to do much other than drive, but it wouldn't do any harm to put in a good word with the boss for her.

"Don't think I've met her yet."

"She's only been in the job for six months. It'll be a while before they let her drive you, I think." She caught the mischievous gleam in his eye. "And if you're about to make some kind of witty remark about women and their driving skills, you can just be quiet and put it away," she added.

His sheepish look was his admission of guilt. "You wouldn't say that if you'd ever been in the passenger seat when my sister's driving."

"Scary?"

"Put it this way." He filled his plate with a selection of mini quiches. "If we ever bring back capital punishment, we won't need to think about firing squads or hangings. We'll just put the poor bastard in the front seat, have my sister drive them around until they die of fear. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes."

"I'm sure Her Royal Highness has a high opinion of your driving skills as well."

She'd meant it as a joke, was surprised when, instead of smiling, he frowned and let out a sigh. "Not right now, she doesn't."

"I'm going to assume that means she wasn't terribly pleased when you crashed?"

"Terribly pleased," he murmured. "Lady Solwen, I swear, for all you think you're a plain talker, sometimes, you could give my Secretary a run for his money in the polite doublespeak department."

That needled her slightly, being compared to his bootlicker-in-chief. "She's pissed as hell at you," she said. "Is that better?"

"It is, and yes, she is." He grabbed the wine from the cooler, adding a splash to both their glasses. "She, uh, she wants me to give up track racing."

"Hmm," she said as she munched on the sausage.

"Okay, what the hell does that 'hmm' mean?"

How to answer. The polite thing would be to say something neutral and bland—tell him exactly what he wanted to hear—but that would mean being a 'yes' woman, and being a 'yes' woman wasn't really her thing. "I'll tell you what it meant, but you have to promise not to be angry with me."

"Why would I be angry with you?"

"Because I'm probably going to tell you something you don't want to hear."

"Which is?"

"Has it occurred to you, Her Royal Highness is right?"

He blinked in surprise. "Sorry?"

"About the track racing, I mean. I know how much you enjoy it, but it _is_ a fairly dangerous hobby. And you _are_ the King. Not someone who should really be putting his life on the line on a Sunday morning."

"That's what everyone else said as well." Scowling, he bit through a quiche. "I was hoping you would be on my side."

She took that as a compliment, that he'd thought about what her opinion would be. And by disagreeing with him, she'd ruffled his feathers—time to smooth them back into place. "It's not a question of being on anyone's side. It's a question of wanting you to be safe. And however much you might enjoy it, you have to accept, track racing isn't safe. Not even for the professional riders. There have been four deaths at the top level in the last ten years. And another handful of guys injured so badly they'll never walk again. And let's not get into how many people have been injured or killed in the lower divisions."

He said nothing, but slowly chewed his way through the rest of his snack.

"I don't think you need to give up riding completely," she added. "But track racing is something you might want to stop doing."

"Have you ever tried it? Racing, I mean?"

"Never, no."

His tone was hard and flat. "Then you don't understand."

"I don't understand what you get out of it, no." She showed him a diplomatic smile, trying to flatten his hackles again. "I'll go out on a limb and guess it's something to do with freedom and speed. But I _do_ understand, what will happen if something goes wrong. You were lucky on Sunday. You had a lowside coming out of a corner, doing, what, ninety?"

He nodded. "About that, yes."

"You slid out at ninety, into a nice, wide gravel trap with plenty of runout room." She finished her sausage, washing it down with some wine, picked another one from the plate. They were almost as moreish as the mints she'd had at the lunch. "Can you imagine, how it might have ended, if you'd pulled a highside instead? Gone over the handlebars, had the Firefoot flip over and land on top of you?"

He tried to wave her away. "I've seen all the videos. People get up and walk away from crashes like that all the time."

"Yes, but you're only seeing the relatively happy stories. The grisly stories, where people _don't_ get up and walk away, nobody puts them up on the 'net in the first place because they're too horrible to watch."

He paused mid-chew. "I, uh, I hadn't thought about it like that," he said in a quiet voice.

"Can I ask, how Colwenna took it? Your crash, I mean?"

"Marginally better than my sister. She's not as loud as Eowyn when she shouts, but what she lacks in volume, she makes up for in intensity."

"And I doubt Fastmer was happy with you either."

He made a pained face. "No, Fastmer was _not_ happy with me. At all. I think he was the angriest I've ever seen him."

"It _is_ his job to protect you. And he can't protect you at all when you're out on the track."

"I suppose not, no."

"I know Brendal was scared for you, too." And for all she didn't yet know him that well, he didn't strike her as the type of man who was easy to scare.

"Lady Solwen, are you trying to pull a guilt trip on me?"

"Not at all, no. I'm just pointing out that you have people in your life who care about you, and who don't want anything bad to happen to you."

He fell silent, swirling his wine. "Are you one of those people?" he eventually asked.

Bema. How the hell should she answer _that_? "Of course I am." She smiled. "You _are_ the King, after all. What kind of loyal subject of the Crown would I be if I wasn't concerned for my sovereign's health and wellbeing?"

He rolled his eyes. "And there's that bloody Marcher sarcasm again."

"I would be upset if something happened to you," she added. "I mean, not 'throwing myself onto the funeral pyre' upset, but I would definitely feel some strong emotions." And not just frustration, that she hadn't had the chance to have sex with him before he'd died.

That seemed to give him some food for thought. "How about, I promise to think about what you said?"

"I can't ask for more than that."

"Except you could," he pointed out.

"I could. But it would be rather insolent of me."

He snorted. "You're a goddamn Hamelmark. Insolent's your middle name."

"Marit, actually."

"Really?"

She nodded. "My maternal grandmother's name." The grandmother who'd died years before she'd even been born.

"Marit," he murmured, taking a sip of his wine. "Not a Rohanese name. Dalish, I assume, if that's where your mother was from?"

"You assume correctly."

His expression turned solemn. "Would you mind if I ask you a couple of questions? About your mother, I mean?"

She reached out to snag a miniature sausage roll. "Not at all, no."

"She was your father's second wife, right?"

"That's right."

"And she's, uh"—he frowned, searching for the right words—"she's _passed_ , isn't she?"

Passed. What a horrifyingly elegant way to describe it—as if her mum had just walked by in the street. But still not as bad as saying she'd lost her life. "You can just say she's dead. It doesn't offend me."

"Just trying to be sensitive. Not everyone is as matter-of-fact about these things as you are."

"But to answer your question, she is, yes. She died when I was two," Solwen added, answering the question that always came up next. She just hoped he wouldn't ask how—that definitely wasn't a suitable topic for a first date. Trying to divert, she held her hand to her throat. "This was her necklace. The first piece of jewellery my dad ever bought her."

"It's beautiful. Goes really well with your dress." He smiled. "Your father has excellent taste."

"You won't mind if I don't tell him you said that."

"Does he know you're here tonight?"

She shook her head. "I told him I was going on a date." They'd kissed—she felt it was okay to use that word now. "But I didn't tell him where, or with whom."

"Sensible. Keeps it simple and easy for now."

Simple and easy. Bema, if only he knew…

"Let me get this straight, though." He paused to sip on his wine. "Your older half-brother's from your father's first marriage, your from his second, and your younger half-brother's from his third?"

"That's right."

Grinning, he shook his head. "That's a real talent your father has. For wives and marriages, I mean. I should ask him how he does it."

"Pretty sure he would tell you, twice by accident, once as a romantic, spur-of-the-moment thing."

"Which one was your mother?"

"The former."

He scrunched his nose. "Okay, but how do you marry someone by accident?"

"The accident wasn't the marriage itself. More the thing that made him realize he had to get married."

"Which was?"

Time to air some of the Hamelmark family laundry. "Me," she said, tapping her chest.

A mischievous smile played on his lips. "Oh, so you were a shotgun baby, then?"

"Erland was as well. Astalor's the only one out of the three of us who was born more than six months after the wedding." A fact of which her younger half-brother was exceedingly and unreasonably proud.

"Why am I not even _remotely_ shocked?"

She shrugged. "It's just how life happens. People meet, fall in love, make babies, get married."

"Yeah, except, I think the last two are supposed to be the other way round?"

"Only if you have a stick up your arse about it."

"So, um, is Erland's mother passed—dead as well?"

She shook her head. "Godith is alive and well and living in Isendale with her second husband and their two sons."

"I assume that means she and your dad divorced."

"When Erland was two-and-a-half." She snagged a bacon-wrapped chicken nugget. "They met when they were in their late teens. Fell in love, got married young, had a baby, grew up a bit, realized they weren't as in love as they thought they were and wanted totally different things."

"Are they still on good terms?"

"Extremely. They just shook hands and agreed to go their separate ways. Godith stayed close, even after she remarried, so Erland could go back and forth between his parents whenever he wanted. She came to my dad's second wedding, he went to hers. It was all extremely civilized." The only thing about their family that ever had been, or ever would be, most likely…

He frowned, thinking, connecting the dots. "Okay, so if Godith has two other sons, that means your older half-brother has two half-siblings on the other side as well?"

"That's right. Roddig and Darion. They're fraternal twins, the same age as me. Barking mad, the pair of them. They stay with us when they come to Edoras. It's like having two human tornadoes in the house."

"And you all get along?" he asked, disbelieving, as if a family getting along was the most outlandish thing in the world. Which, given some of the stories she'd heard about his aunt in Gondor and his grandmother, it might very well be.

"Pretty much. I mean, we have our spats, don't get me wrong, but there's no jealousy or vindictive crap, if that's what you mean. Godith and Nediriel are friends, Nediriel and I are friends, Erland and Nediriel are friends. My dad and Emersen are friends. That's Godith's second husband. He's from Bree. _Super_ nice guy. It's all really relaxed. The only person we all abuse is my dad, but that's almost always because he deserves it."

He held up a hand. "Okay, stop, please. I think I just reached the limit of how many new names I can learn in one night."

"Sorry," she said, grinning. "We're a difficult bunch, I know."

"I always thought my family was complicated, but we're a walk in the park compared to yours."

His family _was_ complicated, just not in the same way as hers. "Least none of my ancestors ever kept his girlfriend in a rabbit hutch in the garden."

"It was a very comfortable rabbit hatch," he protested.

"Right up to the bloody point where your grandmother set it on fire."

"Least _my_ ancestors weren't responsible for the royal peacocks going extinct."

Not the _fucking_ peacock thing again. "Do you even _like_ peacocks?"

"Not really, no. Beautiful birds, but noisy as hell." He wrinkled his nose. "And they shit everywhere."

She shrugged. "So, we kind of did you a favour, then."

"In your own special way, I suppose so, yes."

Was it bad, that she really wanted to show him what _other_ favours she could do for him?

No need to rush; all in good time…

Eomer checked the time as he stifled a yawn; it was almost eleven o'clock—time to think about wrapping this up and heading to bed. He'd been on the go since seven this morning, had to be up again at the same time tomorrow.

"I think someone needs to get to their bed," Solwen said with a soft smile. She finished what was left of her wine and dropped her napkin onto her plate. "Probably time for me to head out."

He wouldn't refuse her offer. He was bone-tired, and his shoulder was starting to throb—a sure-fire sign he was done for the day. All he wanted now was to pop a couple of pills and dive in under the covers. He finished his wine and rose from his chair. "I don't want to sound like I'm kicking you out, but it's been a long day, and I have an early start tomorrow."

"Not a problem," she said rising herself. "I know how busy your schedule is." Pausing to brush some crumbs from her skirt, she came to stand in front of him, smiling softly again. "Thank you for inviting me. I, uh, I had a really nice time tonight."

"Thank you for coming. I had a really nice time, too." And he wasn't saying that just to be nice. He'd enjoyed the more _intimate_ moments, but he'd also enjoyed just sitting and talking and getting to know her. They'd covered all kinds of things—everything from their favourite movies and books to what beers they liked to which five people they would have killed if the government ever let them do it. Her answers on that final point had been interesting, to say the least. Who would have guessed she hated boy bands so much?

He wouldn't deny, he'd been tempted to do more than just talk. When she'd made him that offer, back in the Folly, his first instinct had been to bring her back to his room, carefully strip her out of her dress and do wicked things to her (or with her) for the rest of the night. As well as he could with one arm, at least.

If only his damnable conscience hadn't kicked in…

But his conscience _had_ kicked in, reminding him to not push too far on the first date, to leave the wicked stuff for a future, better acquainted occasion.

He actually felt quite proud of himself. But he was also deciding, consciences were _horrible_ things…

What was the best way to wrap this up? A handshake? A hug? Another kiss? The kissing option seemed best, given this was a date. As long as they kept it short and sweet—nothing that would make either of them question their moral choices again. He leaned in, letting her know he was coming, giving her plenty of time to react, closed his eyes and gently pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft and warm; she tasted of wine and herbed chicken nuggets.

Just as he started to have naughty ideas, the terrace door squeaked open. That would be Colwenna, showing her impeccable talent for timing again, come to round up his guest and show her back to the car.

He pulled away, breaking the kiss. And sure enough, when he turned round, Colwenna was waiting, smiling politely. "It's eleven o'clock, Your Majesty," she said looking not at all perturbed about what she'd just interrupted. Although, to be fair, she'd seen a lot worse.

"Of course, yes." He turned back to Solwen. "Colwenna will see you down to the car. The driver will take you home from there."

"Thank you." She hesitated, maybe conscious of being observed, then pushed up to brush a kiss to his cheek. "Just so you know, next time, I'm going to do more than just kiss you," she whispered, quiet enough that only he would hear.

Some body parts threatened to misbehave. He would have to find another slot in his schedule sometime within the next week. After a night like tonight, he sure as shit wasn't waiting two weeks to see her again.

She grabbed her purse and went to follow Colwenna.

"Thank you for coming. I'll see you again soon," he called out.

She turned to give him a parting smile. "You certainly will."

Her charge delivered to the car, Colwenna went back to check on the King. "Was there anything else you needed, sir?"

The King shook his head. "Nothing, thank you." He raised a hand to cover a yawn. "Pretty tired. Just going to head to bed now."

"Of course." She was tired herself; she would clear the terrace in the morning. "Did you have a good time?"

"I did, yes." He showed a soft smile. "Lady Solwen was extremely good company. I enjoyed spending time with her."

And, as far as Colwenna could tell, they'd made it to the end of the night without anyone losing their clothes. A rare occurrence, and one that bode well for where this all might be going. "I'm glad to hear that," she said.

"I want to set up another date," he said as he headed towards his bedroom door. "Sometime in the next week?"

"Of course." It wouldn't be easy, but they should be able to squeeze something in. "We'll take a look at your schedule tomorrow."

Solwen cursed as she strolled down the drive.

The light in her father's office was on—the post-date interrogation was going to happen as soon as she walked through the door. She'd hoped to delay it until tomorrow, have some time to decide how much of the date she wanted to share.

She was tempted to go for a walk, wait him out, force him to give up on her and go to bed. But the shoes—comfortable enough when she'd first put them on—had started to rub in all the wrong places. And she knew from experience, just how long her dad would wait before he gave up. He was a night owl by nature, would sit there until two in the morning at least, maybe longer, depending on how worried he was. And nothing worried him as much as her going on a first date with someone he'd never met and didn't know.

She let herself in, quietly locking the front door behind her. The back of the house was dark—everyone else was in bed already. Hoping to use the 'I didn't want to disturb you' excuse, she headed straight for the stairs.

She'd just put her foot on the bottom step when the office door creaked open.

Dammit.

"You got home okay, then," a voice behind her quietly said.

Smiling, she turned to face him. "I did, yes." She waved up the drive. "He, um, he dropped me off in his car." Or, rather, Yelisan had, but the point was the same.

"I saw that, yes."

But of _course_ he had. He'd probably been at the blinds with the night vision goggles, trying to read the license plate number.

"I hope you weren't waiting up for me," she said, her tone making it clear she was saying that as a warning, not to express concern for his nightly routine.

"I'm working on some government stuff," he said, gesturing into his office, where papers were scattered across his desk. "Reading through the first draft of the PM's economic plan for the March." Embarrassed, he showed a soft smile. "But I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't waiting for you to come home as well."

Sighing, she nodded. It annoyed her, but there was no point in picking a fight about it. She understood why he did it, knew that as long as she lived in this house, this was just how it would be. She should speak to Elisend, find out if she wanted a roomie to help with the bills. She gestured up the stairs. "It's getting late. I'm going to bed."

"You had a good time? On your date, I mean?"

"I did, yes." And that was as much as she wanted to say on the matter for now.

"Glad to hear it." He let out a small sigh, perhaps sensing she wasn't going to say more. She could almost feel his frustration. "Okay, well, sleep well."

"You too. Don't stay up too late." She jogged up the stairs, desperate to get to her room and take off her shoes.

"Love you, sweet pea," he called out softly when she was halfway to the first floor.

Quietly, she called back, "Love you too, dad. See you tomorrow."

No sooner had she stepped through the door of her room than her phone started to buzz. Who the hell was texting or calling at this time of night? She wrestled it out of her tiny purse to swipe it open. It was a text message from Erland, who couldn't be more than thirty feet down the hall. But he would know better than to come see her, if their dad was still on the prowl.

_How was your date?_ his message said.

_Fine,_ she typed back.

A pause then, _Is that it? FINE?_

_That's as much as I want to say for now_. And as much as she wanted to say to him, until she felt she could fully trust him again.

_Are you going to see him again?_

Good question. She'd made it abundantly clear she was up for another date, was pretty sure from his response that the King would be as well. But just like before, she would have to wait for him to decide. _I hope so_.

_You like him_.

She paused for a few moments, then typed, _Yes_.

And there it was, a single word, in a text message bubble. She _liked_ the King. And she really, _really_ wanted to see him again.

The sooner, the better. She just hoped he wouldn't keep her waiting too long…


	55. Chapter 55

**Wednesday June 10, 2020**

He woke to the sound of something buzzing.

Not his alarm—the wrong type of buzz, and he had the clock on the radio setting.

It was his phone. He'd been so tired when he'd come to bed, he'd forgotten to switch the stupid thing off.

He squinted to make out the time. 6:56, the alarm clock read. Who the _hell_ was calling him before seven? He grabbed the phone to peer at the screen, blinking his brain fog away. He was relieved to see it was only a text—no need for a mumbled, half-awake chat he wouldn't remember by mid-afternoon.

 _How was your date?_ the text message—from Elfhelm—read.

The crack of dawn, he'd wrapped the date up barely eight hours ago, and Elf was sniffing for gossip already…

 _Fine_ , he typed back.

 _FINE?_ was Elfhelm's response; Eomer could hear the indignant way he would say it. _Is that the best you can do?_

_Just woke up, don't have better words yet._

_Did I wake you?_

_YES._

_Don't you always get up at six?_ Elfhelm sent next, almost trying to imply the disturbance was Eomer's fault.

 _To swim. Not swimming right now._ He started to flex his shoulder, felt a sharp twinge, thought better of it.

_Oops._

Eomer snorted. Oops, indeed. _Don't worry. Alarm was set for seven._ As he typed the last word, the alarm went off, filling the room with the sound of his favourite classical music station. He smacked the button to switch it off. _Can't talk for long. Car's coming for me at eight._

_Just wanted to see how everything went. Last night, I mean._

_It went very well._

_That's almost as useless as saying it was fine._

Bema save him from nosy (but well-intentioned) best friends. _Had a great time, I want to see her again. Better?_

_Much._

_So happy you're happy._

_One more question before you go._

_What?_

_How lucky did you get?_ followed by a face with a tongue sticking out and an aubergine symbol.

Elfhelm of Elgoll—bless his heart—nothing if not smooth and subtle…

 _Not answering that_ , Eomer sent back. If only because, he wasn't quite sure what his answer should be. Solwen had made it clear she was willing, but he'd (very politely) rejected her offer. Did that count as getting lucky? Or, did you have to do the physical deed?

 _I thought I was your best friend_ , Elfhelm complained.

_You are. Still not answering that._

_I'm honestly hurt._

_You'll live._ He heard someone moving next door—probably Bregdan, setting out his breakfast table. _Gotta go now. Things to do. People to see._

_I expect details!_

_Later._

He switched off the phone and set it aside. He remembered then, he'd meant to ask Solwen for her number last night. Calling her on her personal phone would be easier than calling the house. And safer as well, if nobody in her family knew they were seeing each other.

And as luck would have it, Elfhelm was the best person to help. He should have asked him to help last week, spared himself the whole 'making an outside phone call' horror. Eomer grabbed the phone, bringing up the text convo again. _Still there?_ he typed.

_Still here, yes._

_I need a favour. Can you help?_

_I'm not buying porn for you._

"That was one time," Eomer muttered. "We were sixteen. Let it go, please." _Your cousin, the one that's Solwen's friend_ , he sent.

_What about her?_

_Can you get Solwen's personal number from her?_

A thumbs up symbol then, _Leave it with me._

_Just be subtle, please?_

_I'm always subtle._

It made him anxious just thinking about it. But he couldn't worry about it right now. He had a more important task to deal with—figuring out how to wash his hair with one hand…

She found Dernbrand on the staff terrace, sitting at one of the quieter tables, checking his phone, working his way through a large bag of chips.

"Mind if I join you?" Godhild said as she approached, gesturing at the other seat.

He smiled. "Not at all, no."

She set her coffee cup on the table and pulled out the chair. "You're on the main shift, right?" she said as she sat.

He nodded. "Done at five, just taking my break. What about you?"

"Late shift for me. I'm just about to clock in." Her least favourite shift, but if she hadn't been on it this week, she wouldn't have seen what she'd seen in the security office last night. She sipped her coffee, trying to decide how to broach the topic she wanted to raise. She trusted Dernbrand, more than she trusted anyone else on the squad, but she would still have to be careful. "Question for you," she said.

"Shoot."

"You remember that Sunday a few weeks ago, when the King went out for a ride with his friend? And you were part of the riding detail?"

"Uh huh?"

She took the lid off her cup to blow on her coffee; the canteen always brewed it too hot. "You told me they met a woman while they were out. At the car park next to the Snowbourn Bridge. And that she came back to the Palace for lunch."

His eyes turned wary. "That's right."

"Did you ever find out who the woman was?" she asked, keeping her tone nonchalant.

"I didn't, no."

"Not even a first or last name?"

He shook his head. "Didn't need to know, so I never went looking." Still wary, he munched on a chip. "I think Vonnal knows who she is."

"Yeah, except getting information out of him's like getting blood out of a stone." She'd already tried, been firmly warned to mind her own business.

Dernbrand's smirk was mocking. "Virtuous Vonnal. Such a goody-fucking-two-shoes. He probably gets down on his knees to say a litany for the King before he goes to bed every night."

"You mean you don't?" she asked, grinning.

"You could check the security log at the gate," he said, taking another chip. He turned the bag to offer her one, she held up a hand to refuse. "Vonnal phoned ahead to ask the guards to let her in. They must have written something down for her. A name, or a license number."

"I tried that. Couldn't get a damn thing from them." She shrugged. "They're Algrin's people, you know what they're like. They wouldn't tell me what day of the week it was if I asked them."

"Why are you asking? About the woman, I mean? What's it to you?" The way he said it—almost a challenge.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course."

She checked behind her, making sure nobody else was close enough to listen in on them. She leaned forward to tell him, "The King had a woman with him last night. Up on the terrace. I'm trying to figure out if it's the same person."

"Did you see her?"

"Not in person, no. They went for a walk on the ramparts. Got too close to the cameras at the Sovereign's Door. Popped up on my monitors in the security room."

"She might just be a friend," he suggested. "Or it could have been a work thing."

"Yeah, except, she was holding his hand."

His brows shot up. "Really?" 

She nodded as she sipped on her coffee. "I'm absolutely sure it's the woman who came for lunch. Just having a hell of a time confirming it."

"Why do you need to? Confirm it, I mean?"

"No reason." She grinned. "Call it professional consideration."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm guessing you've already checked with whoever was on the door last night?"

"I talked to Dunthel. He said nobody came in the front way that he and Sorvana saw."

"Which means Colwenna took the woman in the back route."

"Which means it was an off-the-books visit the King didn't want anyone to know about." And why they bothered with guards at the door, when someone could just go in the back way and avoid them altogether, she wasn't quite sure.

"I swear, the number of pies His Majesty has his fingers in," Dernbrand said, sighing and shaking his head.

Godhild snorted. "I don't think it's his fingers he's putting in them."

He bit through a chip. "Should ask in the garage. When she came for the lunch, she left her bike there. Someone there might know who she is."

"Tried that already."

"No luck?"

"Brendal caught me talking to Wulf, told me to fuck off back to my office. Don't think he likes me very much." Not that she cared—the feeling was mutual—the man was a disrespectful, bad-tempered prick.

"Not the most diplomatic of people, is he?"

"He's from the March. He doesn't know what the word even means."

"Speaking of the March, did you know that's where he's going for Midsummer?"

"Who, Brendal?"

"The King."

"Really?"

He nodded and Dunhill took another chip. "It's not official yet, but I overheard Fastmer talking to Vonnal about it this morning. He's rented a house in Isendale, of all places."

" _Isendale_?"

Dernbrand nodded. "Some fancy house on a lake."

"But he always spends Midsummer in Aldburg. Why the hell is he going there?"

"I don't know for sure, but I'd hazard a guess it's something to do with the election results. He's probably trying to keep the March sweet, so it doesn't think about breaking away, or joining up with Dunland instead."

"If Dunland wants the March, Dunland can fucking have it," she muttered.

He grinned. "Not a fan of our Marcher cousins, then?"

"Put it this way. The next time they have a big forest fire, I'm going to find a hill to sit on, crack some popcorn and watch the place burn."

"I guess that means you'll want to go to Aldburg with the Princess."

"Damn right it does." Go to Isendale for Midsummer, with Virtuous Vonnal, and probably Nippy Nedris as well? She would rather be waterboarded.

"Except, if you go to the March, you'd have a better chance of finding out who the King's new lady friend is."

She paused mid-sip. That was a very good point. There was no way the King would spend three weeks in Isendale on his own, especially if The Princess Royal wasn't there to keep an eye on him. And unless he'd rented a fifty room mansion, he wouldn't be able to keep everything hidden to the same extent as he did here. His protection team would see an awful lot more of what he did, and more importantly, of who he did it with. "Are _you_ going to ask to go to the March?" she said.

Dernbrand shook his head. "Fastmer will go where the King goes, and I think he'll take Vonnal with him, to have someone who knows the lay of the land. That would put me in line to take command of the Aldburg team." He finished his chips, scrunched up the packet and turned to throw it into the bin. "If I get it, I'll pull you in as my second," he offered.

"Thanks. Appreciate that."

But she wasn't thinking about being Dernbrand's second.

She was thinking about how much she might be able to make, once she had this all figured out…

She was about to turn onto King Brego Way when she felt her phone buzz.

She checked her mirrors, saw the lane beside her was clear, signalled and pulled to the side of the road. She slipped the clutch into neutral, steadied the bike between her legs, took off her gloves and pulled her phone out of her pocket.

Solwen smiled as she saw who the text was from. _You free at five_? Elisend's message read.

 _Of course_ , she sent back. At five, at six, at seven, at eight—her schedule wasn't exactly hectic right now.

_Want to meet me for drinks?_

_On a Wednesday?_

_Shit day at work. I need some wine._ As Solwen was thinking on how to respond, another message appeared. _You can tell me about your date last night._

Was that the real reason for the request—Elisend wanted the inside scoop? If it was, she was going to be disappointed. _Where do you want to go?_

_Half-price bottles at Jorry's from five to seven._

She checked her watch; it was three forty-five. _Meet you there at five?_ she sent. That would give her enough time to get home, change and head into town.

_Works for me. Don't be late._

Solwen huffed. She was never late.

 _One other thing_ , Elisend sent.

_What?_

_Would you mind if I invite Henris Keveleok as well?_

Solwen did mind a little, but not enough to really object. She would just have to watch what she said, stick to harmless, neutral topics. Or, what counted as harmless and neutral for her. _Of course not_ , she sent.

_Thanks. Her mum's been on her all week about what happened on Sunday. Think she needs some cheering up._

_We might need two bottles._

_At least._

She made it to Jorry's for just after five. She found her friends in a booth at the back with a half-empty bottle of wine on the table. "I see you started without me," she said, slipping out of her jacket to hang it around a chair.

Elisend pushed an empty glass her way. "You snooze, you lose. And it's not like you don't know how to catch up."

Solwen grabbed the bottle to fill her glass, turning her smile on Henris. "Nice to see you again. I hope your mum wasn't too hard on you for Sunday."

Henris groaned. "She's been _awful_. She hasn't stopped bitching at me all week. Keeps telling me how embarrassed she was, and that she's never taking me anywhere nice again."

"It might just be me, but I don't think a naming party actually counts as somewhere nice," Solwen said.

Huffing, Elisend poked her hard in the arm. "That's my nephew you're dissing."

Solwen shook her head. "It's not just him. _All_ naming parties are boring. It doesn't matter who the kid is."

"To be fair, I don't think I've ever been to one I've really enjoyed," Henris said.

"Please don't agree with her," Elisend warned. "She's _unbearable_ when people tell her she's right. Or, _more_ unbearable, I should say."

Henris giggled into her wine.

"You said you had a shit day at work," Solwen said to Elisend, ignoring the dig. "Anything in particular, or just the usual government crap?"

Shoulders slumping, Elisend heaved a sigh. "I have a new boss. He's a fairly nice guy, but an absolute nightmare to work for," she said. "Has the attention span of a gnat, keeps chasing shiny objects all over the place. Gives me something to work on, then decides to do it himself, then decides to give it someone else on the team, all without telling me, of course." She sipped her wine. "I swear, most days right now, I don't know if I'm having a shave or a haircut."

"You give me five grand, I'll have somebody kill him for you," Solwen offered.

Henris giggled again.

"The worst part is, you think she's kidding," Elisend said to Henris.

Henris went from amused to alarmed. "You're not serious, are you?" she said to Solwen. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as if expecting the police to appear. Turning back, she leaned over the table. "You don't _actually_ know how to have people killed?" she whispered.

Grinning, Solwen shook her head. "I'm not serious, no. I made a few _slightly_ dubious friends when I lived in Mordor, but not that dubious."

"You lived in _Mordor_?"

Solwen nodded. "For eighteen months, yes."

"Okay, that's just…" Henris sighed and threw up her hands. "My mother wouldn't even let me go to Anorien for the weekend in March with a friend. A _female_ friend. Not even a man."

Which was utterly ridiculous—Henris was twenty-four—more than old enough to be her own person and live her own life. She really needed to cut the strings, the sooner the better. She sounded as if she wanted to, but just wasn't sure how. "You don't need your mother's permission, you know," Solwen said. "You're a legal adult. You're allowed to do whatever you want to do, even if she doesn't approve." _Especially_ if she didn't approve…

"I know I am." Henris sipped on her wine. "And I'm trying to. It's just awfully hard."

"Believe it or not, I have boundary issues with my dad as well," Solwen said, thinking about their spat on Sunday. She pointed to Elisend. "And I don't think Elisend's folks are winning any awards in the 'leaving her the hell alone to get on with her life' department either."

Elisend groaned. "My mum's nagging at me to find a nice man. Her words, not mine. I wouldn't mind so much if I didn't know she's only thinking about it from a money perspective."

"Not sure I follow," Henris said.

"Her parents want her to get married, because then her husband has to support her instead of them," Solwen explained.

Henris scrunched her face. "But you have a _job_. A really good one. You already support yourself."

"Try reminding my mother of that," Elisend said.

"Well, you all know who _my_ mother thinks I should have married," Henris said, taking another mouthful of wine.

The King, of course. The Countess's offer, so thoroughly and completely rebuffed…

"That reminds me," said Elisend, grinning as she turned Solwen's way. "How was your date?"

Solwen froze. Had Elisend somehow found out who her date last night had been with? She didn't _think_ she'd let anything slip. And Elisend wouldn't have spoken to Erland. The only other person who knew was Elfhelm. Had he made his usual mistake, and blabbed to his cousin? She would rip him a new one if he had. And so might the King, for that matter.

"The date you were going on last night?" Elisend prompted. "With this guy you won't tell us about? The one you said you were meeting for drinks?"

Elisend didn't know—thank _fuck_. "It was nice," Solwen said, relaxing again. "We just had drinks, chatted and got to know each other."

"Where did you go?" said Henris.

"Just to his place."

Elisend raised a brow. "And you _just_ had drinks and chatted? You didn't do anything else?"

"I _might_ have kissed him," Solwen admitted.

"And?"

"And, what?"

Elisend rolled her eyes. "I swear, getting information out of you, it's like getting the Revenue Service to admit it owes you money. And, is he a good kisser?"

She thought of the kiss in King Fengel's Folly—how it had turned her to shameless, slutty, quivering goo and set her innards on fire "Very."

"But you only kissed him," Henris said. "No frisky business."

"No frisky business, no. It sort of came up, then we decided we're going to take our time with it."

"That's a first for you," Elisend said, making Henris giggle again.

Henris asked, "Are you going to see him again?"

"I think so, yes. I mean, I'd certainly like to, but it's obviously up to him as well." More up to him than to her, since he had her number but she didn't have his.

"Are we allowed to know who he is yet?" Elisend asked, grabbing the bottle to top up her glass.

If it had only been Elisend, Solwen might have been willing to spill the beans. But there was no way in hell she was telling Henris as well. She liked what she'd seen of Henris so far, but she still didn't really know her from Bema—she wasn't entirely sure she could trust her. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not say anything yet. Let me have another date with him, if I still like him after that, I'll tell you a little more then." But only a little.

"Oh, and speaking of telling people things, Elfhelm texted me this morning," Elisend said.

"Uh huh?" said Solwen, tensing.

"He asked me for your personal number. I gave it to him, figured you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all, no." Especially since she had a decent idea of who he'd really been asking for. She wanted to do a quick happy dance—talk about a good sign? She would have to watch how she answered her phone—no more blocking unlabelled numbers for now.

"No idea why he wanted it, of course."

Before Solwen could think of something to say, Elisend's phone started to ring. Elisend plucked it from the table, swearing as she read the number. "It's my boss. I have to take this. We're giving a presentation to the whole team tomorrow. He's probably tinkering with it and fucked something up." She slid off the stool. "Keep drinking, I'll be right back." She strode away to find somewhere to talk.

"So," Solwen started with her politest smile. "Going anywhere nice for Midsummer?"

Henris ignored her question. "Lady Solwen, I think I need your help."

This sounded bad. "With what?"

"On Sunday, and again just now, you talked about how I shouldn't worry so much about doing what my mother wants me to do."

"I did. And you shouldn't. You need to live your life for yourself, not her."

"I'm trying to. But it isn't easy."

"I know," Solwen said, showing a sympathetic smile. "It's something everyone struggles with at some point. Some parents find it hard to accept their child has become a fully-formed person who doesn't always share their ideas and opinions."

Henris stared into her wine. "You have _no_ idea how little I have in common with her," she said.

Given what a terrible person the Countess seemed to be—demanding, egotistical, vain—that wasn't necessarily a bad thing…

Henris sighed, sat up straight and drained most of her glass in a single gulp. "Did you know, she's presenting Thenwis Colafell's petition tomorrow?"

"I didn't, no. You told us about it on Sunday, of course, and I saw it in the paper on Monday"—who in Edoras hadn't—"but other than that, I haven't paid a lot of attention to it." She'd decided before she'd left last night not to discuss it at all with the King—it wasn't the most romantic of topics.

"Has your dad talked about it?"

"Not really, no." Best not to mention her dad had known about it beforehand as well. "But I haven't seen him much this week. The Hall's back in session, and I've been out doing other things." Sadly, for now, 'other things' didn't include the King.

"You probably don't know if he's planning to be part of the rebuttal, then."

What a strange question to ask—if Solwen didn't know better, she would think Henris was fishing for her mother. "I don't, sorry. Like I said, we haven't talked about it that much. I don't think he approves of what Thenwis is doing, but I haven't seen any sign he feels strongly enough about it that he'd want to get involved." She paused to sip on her wine. "The rebuttal will probably take either a legal or constitutional angle. He has no expertise at all on those subjects, so he'll leave it to better qualified people. And he's got other work to worry about."

Henris nodded. "Harbrand's stimulus thing for the March."

"Can I ask why you're asking?"

Henris fell silent again, frowning, slowly swirling what was left of her drink. Eventually, she sighed, put down her glass and reached into her bag to bring out a USB stick. She slapped the stick on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out who I should give this to, and your dad was the first person I thought of."

"What is it?"

"It's some documents and emails I copied off my mother's computer."

Shock rippled through her. "What kind of emails?"

"Emails between the main people involved. My mother, Thenwis, Thenwis's lawyers." She gestured at Elisend's chair. "A couple to Ellie's dad." She took a deep breath. "And to the Earl of Camelor as well."

Hearing that name—Solwen's shock turned to pure, frigid fear. "Henris…"

Henris held up a blocking hand. "I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me this is illegal, and that I have no idea what I'm doing." Henris huffed a laugh. "And you'd be right. It _is_ illegal, and I _do_ have no idea what I'm doing."

"Why the hell are you doing it then?"

"Because I don't like what my mother is doing, and I want her petition to be defeated."

"And you think giving these files to whoever's going to present the rebuttal will somehow give them a step up?"

"I thought it would at least let them see what she's thinking. What everyone's objectives are. What they all think they're going to get from it."

Solwen didn't have to read the files to know what Camelor thought he was going to get from it. The same as always—money, influence, power. It was the only thing he ever worked for, either to gain it for himself directly, or to gain it for someone he could then use. Like Thenwis Colafell, for one. "Henris, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I don't see how looking at these files would help. Whoever presents the rebuttal, they'll almost certainly go for the legal angle. What your mother's objectives are, what she thinks she's going to get from it"—she shrugged—"it's all irrelevant, really."

"Can you just take this home and have your dad look at what's on it?" Henris said, pushing the drive forward again. "And if he decides he's not going to be part of the rebuttal, that's fine, I understand, but can you ask him to give the drive to whoever is? Please?" she pleaded.

"You _do_ understand, just how badly you're breaking the law?"

Henris nodded. "I thought about that. And I'm willing to take the risk, if it means the petition fails."

"And you think my dad's the person to do it?"

"I thought he would at least be a good starting point." Henris showed a strained smile. "Mum's always talking about what a shit-stirring pain in the ass he is.."

That last part was certainly true—nobody in the Hall knew how to paddle the poop quite as well as her dad. "You also understand, if the existence of this drive ever became public knowledge, it wouldn't take much for your mother to trace it back to you."

Henris stared at her hands. "I don't care. She can disinherit me, if she wants to. Maybe then, she'll stop trying to run my life for me."

That was one way to look at it, yes.

Movement at the front door—Elisend returning.

"Please take it," Henris pleaded, pushing the drive forward again. "I don't want Elisend to see it. She doesn't need the trouble."

Irritation surged. "But my dad and I do?"

"Lady Solwen, your great-grandfather once rode a horse onto the dais in the Golden Hall and let his horse piss all over the throne, just to make a point to the King. He _talked_ his way out of being executed. If your family can't handle these files, nobody can."

"Fine," Solwen muttered, still irritated. She palmed the stick and shoved it into her jacket pocket, just as Elisend returned.

"Work stuff all sorted?" Henris asked.

Elisend nodded. "He was trying to update our presentation, wanted to validate some data with me." She smiled, glancing from one friend to the other. "Did I miss anything fun?" she asked, sliding back onto her seat.

Did political espionage count as fun? "The usual," said Solwen, shrugging. "The weather, movies, holiday plans."

"That reminds me," Elisend said, her face lighting up. "What are you all doing for Midsummer?"

The whole way home on the bus, Solwen felt as if the USB stick was burning a hole in her pocket.

Bema only knew what was on it. And what if Henris was setting a trap? What if she was actually her mother's perfectly dutiful daughter, and the USB had a worm or a trojan horse on it—something that would give the Earl of Camelor access to every device in the Hamelmark home?

She should throw it into the fucking river.

But she wanted to show it to her dad first. He'd been dealing with shit like this for thirty-odd years. He would know what to do.

Back at the house, she headed upstairs to knock on the door of Astalor's room. "Asta, it's Solwen."

"I'm busy," his muffled voice said. "Come back later."

Busy doing what, she could only imagine. "I need your help with something. It's important."

A sigh, then footsteps stomped to the door, which promptly flew open. "What?" a clearly irritated Astalor said.

She held up the USB stick. "I need you to plug this into your laptop and check it's clean for me."

"Plug it into your own bloody laptop. If you think it's infected, I'm not putting it anywhere near mine."

"Not your regular laptop. Your _other_ laptop."

His face went blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know fine well what I'm talking about." She pushed him into the room, shutting the door over behind her. "Your hardened laptop. Or whatever the fuck you call it. The one with no network or wi-fi connection, and all the protective features on it. The one you use to watch porn."

"I don't watch porn," he said, scrunching his nose, insulted by the mere suggestion.

"Astalor, I know fine well you have a hard disk full of the stuff. I don't care. I'm not interested in what you jack off to. I just need you to check this for me." She held the stick out again. "Please. It's important."

"Fine," he muttered, grabbing the stick. He went to pull a laptop from the top of a cupboard, cracked it open and powered it up. "What do you think should be on it?" he said.

"It should just be documents and emails."

He set the laptop on the desk and jammed the stick in the USB port. "Whose emails?"

"Best not to ask."

"Where'd you get it?"

"You don't want to know."

He swore in Sindarin under his breath—she didn't quite catch it—something about being full of shit. "Why does everyone in this family have so many _fucking_ secrets?" he said.

" _I_ don't have secrets," Solwen said.

He snorted. "Says the woman who won't even tell us who she had a date with last night."

"That's not me having secrets. That's just me having a private life I don't want to share. There's a difference." She went to stand behind him, watching the screen as he started up a couple of programs. It was a godsend, having a brother who was this good with computers. She knew enough to get by, but she had nowhere near Astalor's level of expertise.

"It'll just take a minute," he said, starting some kind of scan.

"No worries." She peered at his desktop as the program kicked in. Something in the upper right corner made her do a quick double-take. "Astalor, what the fuck is _that_?" she said, pointing to a folder called 'Elves With Shelves'.

Scowling, he pulled the laptop away. "None of your fucking business."

Was he was looking at porn of _elvish women_? Elvish women of—what was a nice way to put it—of generous upper dimensions? Eru and all the Maiar save him. But who knew elves even made porn? One learned a new thing every day…

He peered at the screen, clicked a few things with the mouse, typed in a few more commands. "Looks fine to me," he said. "No executable files or macros. Some of the emails have attachments, but I can't find anything malicious in them." He shrugged. "I think you're fine."

"So, if I plug this into my computer, it won't let a hacker into our wi-fi network or something?"

He shook his head. "You're good, it's safe." He pulled the stick out and handed it to her. "Do I event want to know why you're asking me that?"

"No."

"Are you doing something illegal?"

"Of course not."

He snorted. "Fucking liar."

She knocked on the door of her dad's office and stuck her head in. "You got five minutes?" she said.

He smiled. "For you, sweet pea, always." He beckoned her in, putting the papers he was reading aside. "What's up?"

No point in beating around the bush. "This," she said, holding out the USB stick.

Frowning, he rose from his seat. "What the hell's that?"

She couldn't resist. "It's a USB drive."

"Yes, smartarse. I can see that. What's on it, I mean?"

"A bunch of documents and emails the Countess of Keveleok has written in relation to Thenwis Colafell's petition."

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"You heard me."

He took the stick from her, cautiously, as if he was scared it would burn him. "Solly, where on _earth_ did you get this?" he said.

She hesitated, then said, "From Henris." He needed to know what the source was. If she didn't tell him, he would just throw it away.

"Henris? _Keveleok_?"

"The Countess's oldest daughter, yes."

"And where did she get it?"

"She didn't say, but I assume she copied it from her mother's computer."

"Fuck me," he muttered, ashen-faced, wiping his hand over his mouth. "Solly…"

She held up a hand. "We're probably breaking at least six laws by even having it in our possession, I already know, you don't have to tell me."

"When did Henris give it to you?"

"A couple of hours ago. I met her and Elisend at Jorry's for drinks."

"I didn't think the two of you really knew each other."

"We don't. I only met her for the first time on Sunday, at the baby naming thing."

"Then, why the hell is she giving this to you?" he said, waving the stick at her.

"She doesn't like what her mum's doing with the petition, she's trying to sabotage it however she can." She sighed. "She'd gotten it into her head that you were going to lead the rebuttal. Or be involved in it, at least. She figured giving you this would help."

"I'm not going anywhere near the rebuttal. Whoever decides to take it on will frame it as a legal or constitutional matter." He tapped his chest. "I have a Finance degree. What the _hell_ could I do?"

"I told her that. She said if you're not the right person to deal with it, we should just pass it along to whoever is."

He turned the drive over to read the brand logo. "Is it even safe?"

She nodded. "I had Astalor check it for me. He says it's clean." Grinning, she leaned in to murmur, "Did you know he's watching elvish porn these days?"

He made a pained face. "Elvish? Really?"

"I didn't know the elves even _made_ porn," she said. "I thought they were all too highbrow for that."

He snorted. "You think the idea of elvish porn's shocking, you should see what they make in The Shire."

She wasn't quite sure what was worse—finding out halflings made porn, or finding out her dad knew halflings made porn. She needed to scrub her brain out with bleach. "Astalor ran a full scan," she said, pointing at the stick. "He says there's no malware on it that he could find. It's just documents and emails, like Henris said."

"Hell hath no fury like a daughter scorned, it seems."

"Should remember that the next time you pick a fight with me."

He tutted and shook his head. "You said you wouldn't bother to ruin me, remember? That you would just pack up and leave."

"I reserve the right to change my mind without giving notice."

"You're a woman. Course you bloody well do." He winced as she punched him hard on the arm. "Have you looked at what's on it?" he said.

"I haven't, no. Been too bloody scared. I didn't want to take the damn thing, only took it to shut Henris up." She held up her thumb and finger a millimetre apart. "I came this close to dropping it down a drain when I got off the bus."

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought I should take some expert advice on the matter," she said.

"And you think I'm an expert on this kind of thing?"

"You know more about this kind of thing than I do. You're the shit-stirring politician. I just work in a bank."

"You said it's documents and emails. Any idea who the emails involve?"

This was the part he would love. "Henris said her mother, Thenwis, Thenwis's lawyers, a few to Elisend's dad." She braced for the worst. "And some to the Earl of Camelor as well."

"Camelor?" he repeated. He shook his head, backing away. "Oh, Solly, no. If he's involved, you want to stay the fuck out."

"I'm not stupid, dad. I know how he works."

His smile was soft. "I know you do, sweet pea." Sighing, he turned the drive over, again and again. She could tell he was itching to take a look at it. He liked his wine and his beer, and yes, an occasional cigarette as well, but information had always been his drug of choice.

"You can't tell me you're not interested," she said.

"Course I'm interested. And if it was just Keveleok, I'd be in the damn thing already. But only an idiot with a death wish sticks his nose into something Rogen Camelor's involved in."

"You scared of him?"

"You bet your arse I am," he said. "That doesn't mean I'm not willing to take him on in a fight. It just means I'm extremely careful about how and when and why I do it. The last time I took him on, it was to protect you, and I'm still dealing with shit from that now."

"Sorry," she said in a quiet voice.

"Don't apologize," he said, his mouth setting in a hard line. "You have _nothing_ to apologize for."

"What should we do with it, then?" she said, gesturing at the drive. "Throw it away, or keep it safe, and wait to see who puts their hand up for the rebuttal?"

"Why don't you leave it with me for a few days, let me think about it?"

"Of course." Better him than her. "Oh, and Henris told me her mother's presenting the petition tomorrow."

He nodded. "It was in the email for tomorrow's Order of Business. At two o'clock." He smirked. "Jonrick told me she bullied the Custodian's office into giving her a time slot this week."

"Will you sit in to hear it?"

"Of course."

"I'll check in with you tomorrow night, then," she said, turning to leave. She'd done what she could; it was in his hands now.

"Solly?" he called out just as she reached the door.

"What?"

"You _do_ realize, who would most like to see what's on this?" he said, waving the stick.

She frowned, confused. "Who?"

He pointed up the hill. "His Blessed Majesty would."

The King, of course—the person the petition was really trying to take down—why hadn't she thought about that? He would probably give his eye teeth to see what Thenwis and her people were saying about him. She could make a copy of the drive, take it to him herself on the sly, whenever she saw him next.

"There is the small legality issue, of course," he added. "Not sure how the King would feel about being given stolen information."

There was that minor point, yes. "He's supposed to be the Fount of Justice. We probably shouldn't encourage him to do anything naughty." Or, rather, this kind of naughty—she would encourage him to do a different kind of naughty as much and as soon as she could.

"You know someone who knows him, right?"

"Sorry?"

"You told me on Sunday, someone at the party was warning the King the petition was coming. You must know someone who knows him."

"I do, yes." Best not to name names—Elfhelm didn't need to be dragged into this mess. And it wasn't as if she actually needed his help. "But I'm not sure it's an option I trust."

"Fair enough. Was just a thought." He put the stick in a drawer. "Let's sit on it for now, see what happens with the Countess's speech tomorrow."

Once Solly was gone, Duncan went back to his papers, sighing, smiling, shaking his head.

In the two months she'd now been back in Edoras, his daughter had brought him more interesting news than his father, his wife and both of his sons had ever brought him in their whole lives combined.

She was a Hamelmark, right to her core…

A shame he couldn't leave her his title. For all she claimed she didn't care about politics and never wanted to sit in the Hall, she would be a natural at it. Erland would do a good enough job as his heir (if he could stay off the weed), but Solwen would do even better.

But such was the way of a Landed House. The earldom would go to his oldest son, whether he had a talent for it or not.

Now, if Solly would just bring him the interesting news he most wanted to hear—the name of the goddamn man she was dating…


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer makes peace with Eowyn, and talks to Brendal about going to the March.
> 
> Part one of what's happening on this date. Part two will go in another chapter...

**Thursday June 11, 2020**

Her breakfast table was set for two.

"Halmund," Eowyn called out.

Halmund duly appeared. "Yes, Your Highness?" he said.

"Why is my table set for two?" she said, waving between the place settings.

Halmund's smile was polite, but there was a hint of mischief in it as well. "Because you're having breakfast with someone this morning, ma'am."

"No, I'm not." She _never_ had people over for breakfast. Unless it was something she'd arranged months ago, and completely forgotten about. Her schedule was so busy these days. She flashed him a smile, not wanting to sound too accusing. "Although, it's entirely possible I am, and I just don't remember."

He shook his head. "You haven't forgotten anything, ma'am. It was a special request. I received it last night, while you were out for dinner."

And he'd just confirmed the request, without reviewing it with her first? That seemed a _tiny_ bit rude. "From whom?"

By way of an answer, the door behind her creaked open. Eomer stepped into the room, clean shaven, washed and dressed, wearing one of his nicest suits, his left arm still bound in a sling, his right hand holding a bunch of her favourite flowers. He smiled—hopeful and nervous at the same time—and every ounce of his body language, from the set of his shoulders down to how he'd positioned his feet, was deferential and contrite. "Good morning," he said, to Halmund as much as to her.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," Halmund said, giving his usual smart bow. "We're almost ready for you, sir. Bregdan and I will return shortly." Before Eowyn could question him further, he bowed again and withdrew.

"I hope you don't mind," Eomer said, gesturing at the table. "I thought it was time we started talking again, this seemed like a good way to do it."

"You could have told me you were coming."

He grinned. "Where's the fun in that?"

Contrite on the surface, the same old breezy Eomer underneath. But it was nice he was trying. "Are those for me?" she said, pointing at the flowers.

"Yes, of course. Sorry." Smiling, he held them out. "Something to brighten your room. I know how much you love peonies."

She took the flowers, pausing to breathe in the scent. Beautiful, and her favourite colour as well. "Let me pop these in some water," she said, heading into her kitchenette. She filled the sink and hitched the flowers up on the side. It would do until she could have Seonell take care of them.

Back at the table, he pulled her chair out with his good hand, gesturing for her to sit.

"So, how have you been?" he said, smiling again as he claimed his own seat.

She could almost hear the effort he was making—trying to be attentive and kind, solicitous of her wounded feelings. It was like having breakfast with a puppy. "Fine," she said. "Busy week, lots going on." She drew her napkin onto her lap. "You know how it is."

He grabbed the pot to pour them some tea. "It's just, if you don't mind me saying, you look a bit tired."

"I haven't been sleeping well," she admitted.

"Something on your mind?"

Something on her mind, Bema. How to tell him, she kept having dreams where she found him broken and bleeding, dying or already dead? And sometimes, their mother and father as well, burned beyond recognition, all killed in the same horrific, bone-mangling crash? "Nothing to worry about," she said, waving him off. "Just a few things my brain won't stop thinking about. It'll pass soon enough."

Quietly, he asked, "By any chance, is one of those things my crash?"

She thought of her dreams, couldn't find the right words; her answer was a curt nod.

Sighing, he stirred some sugar into his tea. "I thought that might be the case. And it's why I'm here. What I wanted to talk to you about."

"Your crash?"

"More about what caused it."

"You told me a squirrel caused it."

A trace of a grin. "It did. But I meant the racing part." He stared at his tea, sighing again, those serious brows of his drawing together. Whatever he was trying to say, it was obviously going to be difficult for him. "I've, uh, I've done some thinking over the last few days, and I've realized all of you are right." He took a deep breath. "I've realized I probably shouldn't be racing. Not with the position and responsibilities I have. It's too dangerous, and it's too hard on the people who care about me, and who need me to be healthy and safe." When he raised his eyes, they were full of remorse. "Especially you."

Eowyn's heart lurched into her throat—this was the last thing she'd ever expected to hear him admit. He'd always been so stubborn about his riding, so insistent it was nothing to worry about, and that no harm would ever come to him. "Are you saying you're going to give it up?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, yes. Not riding," he quickly added. "I couldn't ever give up my bikes. But no more racing at Gleodream, and no more throwing myself up the Starkhorn Pass at full speed."

This was like having ten birthdays on the same day; she was so relieved, she wanted to cry. "You really mean that?"

He nodded. "I'm going to talk to Brendal today, ask him to strip out all the add-ons we put in the 'foot." He sighed. "Assuming she's not a write-off, of course. I'm still waiting for him to give me the final decision."

"What will you do? If she is a write-off, I mean?"

He dropped his eyes to his tea again. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it," he said.

"Would you consider not buying another?"

His answer was slow in coming. "I can't promise that. But I _can_ promise, whether I fix the one I have, or I end up buying a new one, I'll be _extremely_ responsible with it. I'll have fun, but without pushing it to the point where anyone will worry about me."

That was good enough for her. It wasn't that she didn't want him to have fun, she just wanted him to be safe when he did. Whether the fun was with motorbikes or with women. "Can I ask, what brought this all on? You've always been so firm about your racing. What on earth made you change your mind?"

He smirked. "You mean, apart from having to figure out how to put my underwear on with one hand?"

"Apart from that, yes." And Bema, there was an image.

His expression turned sombre again. "Mostly just thinking about some of the things you said on Sunday, and how scared and angry everyone was."

Time to meet him halfway. "I'm sorry I shouted at you," she said. "I know it didn't help. I was just.."—how to tell him how she was feeling—"I was so _scared_ , when Seonell came to tell me the news. And she didn't hear anything more for almost an hour." She reached out to lay her hand over his. "I had so much worry stored up, and you just happened to be in the firing line when I let it all out."

"Better me than someone else, I suppose." A mischievous gleam sprang into his eye. "I'm always impressed by what an effective shouter you are. I swear, when you're on your best form, you could make a grown man cry at forty metres."

"Is that the apology part over, then?" she said, pulling her hand away. "Five minutes of grovelling and making amends, and now you're back to witty remarks?"

Grinning, he shrugged. "Witty remarks are what I do best."

"It's certainly not steering a bike around a corner."

"Did you forget the part with the squirrel?"

What was that old saying again, about how careless riders always blamed the horse for losing a shoe?

They paused as Halmund and Bregdan appeared, carrying various plates and dishes—an omelette with fruit on the side for her, some toast and a bowl of oatmeal for him.

"Since when do you have oatmeal for breakfast?" she said, gesturing at his plate.

He wielded his spoon. "Since I figured out it's something I can eat with one hand. And that I don't need anyone to cut up for me."

"I meant to ask, how's the shoulder feeling?"

"Still sore, but better than it felt on Sunday." He put down his spoon to add some milk to his oats. "A doctor's coming to check it this morning, make sure it's healing up the right way."

"You think you'll be able to get rid of the sling?" She could only imagine how inconvenient it must be—it would complicate even the simplest of tasks.

He shook his head. "The doc at the hospital said at least two weeks." He spooned a mouthful of oats. "Can't wait to take the bloody thing off. You don't realize how much you use both arms until one of them's out of action."

"Could be worse. At least it's only two weeks. And at least you have people to help."

"With some of it, yes. Don't mind asking one of the valets to button my shirt or do up my belt. Sure as shit not asking one of them to get in the shower to wash my hair for me."

Her tone was desert-dry. "You should give Seorsa a call. I'm sure she'd be happy to help."

"Now who's making the witty remarks?"

"But I'm not wrong, am I?"

He put down his spoon to take a bite of his toast. "She, uh, she actually called me. On Tuesday."

"I thought you weren't going to see her again." She would kick his arse down Citadel Drive if he so much as _thought_ about it. "You promised Nini and me you wouldn't, remember?"

"I did. And I won't. But she still has my personal number."

Her and half the other women in Edoras, it seemed. "What was she calling about?"

"I don't know. I'd just got out of my meeting with the PM, I wasn't able to take the call."

"Did you call her back?"

He shook his head. "Not yet, no. But I'm going to, don't worry," he said, showing her a placating smile. "I'm going to tell her it's done. I told you and Nini I wouldn't see her again, so it's time to draw a line under it once and for all."

"I think so, yes." He should have done it already, but better a few weeks late than never.

"I just have to figure out how. I don't want to embarrass her or hurt her feelings."

"That's rather considerate of you."

His grin was wry. "Just trying not to make an enemy of her."

"Rogen will be all the enemy Seorsa can handle for now." And he was worth at least ten enemies all on his own. "She won't have the time or energy to make an enemy of you as well. And it wouldn't be the smartest move. At the end of the day, you _are_ the King."

"True."

"Can I make a tiny recommendation?"

"Of course."

"I know it might seem slightly ill-mannered, but when you wave her off, do it over the phone. Don't go to her house to do it in person."

His grin came out again. "You worried I won't be able to resist her feminine wiles?"

"She does have quite a few of them." And he'd never been the most wile-proof of people.

"Yes, that's more or less what Nini said." His expression turned solemn again. "And, um, just so you know, there's more to it than just the promise I made. Why I'm finally ending things with Seorsa, I mean." He stirred his oats. "There's another reason I want to move on."

"What's that?"

"You remember when we had breakfast the morning after my lunch with granna, I told you I'd had lunch with a woman?"

"And I promised I wouldn't try to find out who that woman was?"

"That's right." He took a spoonful of oats. "I, um, I saw her again on Tuesday night."

He was being candid with her—she should be candid with him in return. "I actually heard about that. Not the details, so don't panic, I don't know who. Just the fact you had someone over."

"Who told you?"

"I don't remember," she lied. She waved a nonchalant hand. "You know how it works. No matter how careful you are, some tiny snippet of gossip always gets out."

He bit through his toast, looking not entirely pleased, but not displeased enough to complain.

"Did you enjoy it?" she asked. "Your date, I mean?"

He nodded. "I did. Very much, yes."

"Did _she_ enjoy it?"

"Wynna, if that's your _delightfully_ subtle way of asking if I had sex with her…"

"Shockingly, it isn't." She could happily live without _ever_ knowing the answer to that riddle. "Just trying to get a feel for where it all might be going." And if it might last more than a month…

"At the moment, I think it's going towards a third date." He frowned. "Or a second. I'm not sure if the initial lunch counted."

"You should arrange something soon. Before your schedule gets too busy."

"I'm going to. Right after breakfast."

"After you've spoken to Brendal about stripping the bike, I assume."

"Right, yes."

"Don’t forget to do that." He wouldn't _deliberately_ not do something he'd promised to do, but accidentally? Absolutely, yes.

"I won't. I said I would, so I will."

She took a forkful of omelette, washed it down with some tea. "So, you're giving up racing, you're stripping the bike, you're calling it quits with Seorsa _and_ you're arranging to have a third date with another woman."

"Yes."

"It's been quite a week."

He made a sour face. "Don't forget what's coming this afternoon."

Thenwis's petition, of course. Seonell had mentioned last night it was being presented today. "Are you going to tune it for it?"

He shook his head. "I have engagements all afternoon. I'll have to catch it later." He smirked. "Given the frenzy the media's been in since Monday morning, I'm sure I won't have any problems finding coverage of it."

"Speaking of coverage, I saw Fenbrand's statement yesterday in The Times. It was very well done."

"When it's Fenbrand, it always is."

"I saw him yesterday, with a younger man I didn't know." And an extremely attractive younger man at that—tall, well-built, with lovely blue eyes and cheekbones she could cut herself on. Whoever he was, he was going to be popular with the women on staff. She wondered if he was single.

Eomer nodded as he sipped on his tea. "That'll be Connet. He just started this week. I think Fenbrand's testing him out as a potential successor."

For when Fenbrand retired next year, of course. "Any good? This Connet, I mean?"

"No idea yet. I only spoke to him for a couple of minutes, and he mostly kept his mouth shut. Time will tell."

She remembered then, something else that would lift his mood. "And speaking of statements in the paper, did you see the one Aragorn just put out?"

His face lit up. "I didn't, no. But I haven't looked at the papers yet. Was that today?"

She rose from her seat and went to grab her copy of The Dol Amroth Press. The original statement had gone in the Guardian, but it had been copied to all of the regional papers. "It's a short one, but very well done. He's making it clear that even though he considers Thenwis's petition to be an internal Rohanese matter, he also believes you're the rightful king, and has no desire to see any kind of change in the Crown." She flicked until she found the right page, folded the paper up to a size that could be held in one hand and handed it to him.

He smiled softly as he scanned the text. "He always says the nicest things, doesn't he?"

"You should be very glad he's such a good friend," she said, reclaiming her seat.

"I am. Trust me."

"I don't think Aragorn actually wrote it, though. He's an effective communicator, but that statement is a masterclass in diplomatic understatement."

"Hmm, yes, it's quite something, isn't it?" He grinned. "It's probably making Fenbrand green with envy."

"The line about not questioning the legality of historic renunciations is particularly interesting, I think."

"How so?"

"Because I don't think that's aimed at Thengwen and Thenwis." She grabbed the teapot to refill their cups. "I think that's for our other shit-stirring aunt."

Unsurprisingly, he knew she didn't mean Eorwena. "You think Morghild's going to use this to cause some trouble?"

"Not after that statement, I don't. Aragorn isn't quite an absolute monarch, but he's as close as anyone can be these days. If he tells Aunt Morghild and Amrandir to keep their noses out of our internal affairs, they pretty much have to do what he says."

"And Amrandir's smart enough he won't jeopardise his princely status in Gondor for a long-shot at the Rohanese crown."

"And it's _definitely_ a long shot," she said. In her opinion, so long as to not even be worth entertaining. "Morghild's lack of succession rights is a much clearer matter than Thengwen's. She knew she couldn't keep them if she married abroad. And she gave them up to become the wife of the ruling Prince of Erech. It wasn't as if her decision left her with nothing." Not that Thengwen's had left her with nothing either—she'd married a commoner rich enough to support all four of King Thengel's daughters, and maybe even Queen Morwen as well.

He scanned Aragorn's statement again, then threw the paper onto the couch. "Is Morghild coming to the anniversary banquet?"

"She's our aunt. And now a Gondorian royal. Of course she is."

He grunted. "Awesome."

"Let's just hope the petition's settled by then."

"You think it won't be?"

"That depends on the scheduling of the rebuttal. The Countess will probably push for it to happen before the Midsummer break, but if the schedule's already too full with other stuff, or if the Custodian stalls her, it might not happen until September."

"I'm not sure which option I like. Part of me wants to have it done by Midsummer, but part of me wants the people presenting the rebuttal to have as much time as they need to prep a really good case."

"But you don't want it hanging over you for the next three months."

"Especially not through the anniversary banquet." He pretended to shudder. "That would be a nightmare."

"The best solution would be a rebuttal before we break for Midsummer, but given by someone who really knows what they're doing."

"That's the part that worries me. It's the Hall of Lords. You can count on two hands the number of people in that place who really know what they're doing, and at least two of them are on the wrong side." He made a pained face. "If someone like Hereoch gets involved, I might as well just give Thenwis the keys to the Palace tonight."

That was a worrying angle, yes. Most of the members of the Hall had good intentions, but they tended not to be as well educated or as well trained as their elected counterparts in the House. Sometimes, that lack of training was a good thing—it allowed them to tackle an issue from the heart, without all of the professional political baggage. But with this issue, it could be a serious problem. They needed the best on their side—people who would know what to say and exactly how to say it.

She would call the Countess of Darkfald this morning, quietly sound her out about who might want to present the rebuttal. Erella would know how to step on any well-meaning fools to keep the way clear for other, more talented speakers. "Let's just wait and see what happens," she said. "Might not be as bad as you think."

The Firefoot was an absolute mess; it broke his heart just looking at her.

Not a write-off, that he could see—the damage looked to be mostly cosmetic—but she was going to need a shit-ton of work. Nothing someone of Brendal's talents couldn't handle, of course, but he wouldn't be taking her to Isendale with him. Pity. He'd been looking forward to throwing her up whatever interesting roads the March had to offer. Although, given the promise he'd just made to his sister—a promise he fully intended to keep—he should leave his 'throwing' days behind him, concentrate on just 'riding' instead.

Brendal emerged from his office. "Your Majesty, good morning," he said with a broad smile, as always, completely ignoring the 'who speaks first' protocol thing. "It's _extremely_ good to see you, sir. How have you been?"

"Good morning, Brendal. And I'm very well, thank you for asking." Or, as well as he could be, all things considered. He wiggled the fingers on his left arm. "The sling's a pain in the arse, and I'm still a bit sore in a few places, but other than that, I can't really complain."

"Just glad that's all it turned out to be. When they loaded you into the ambulance, you seemed a wee bit woolly around the edges. A few of us were worried you'd somehow taken a bump to the head."

Eomer shook his head. "No concussion. Think that was either shock, or just a massive adrenaline crash." He gave a one-sided shrug. "Not every day you slide out on a bike while you're doing almost a hundred."

"Ninety-one," Brendal said. He went to the 'foot to tap the battered remains of the camera unit. "I checked the footage, that's what speed you were doing when you went down."

"That much?"

"Could've been a _tiny_ part of why you slid out," Brendal said, in the most tactful tone Eomer had ever heard the man use. Which was saying something—Brendal was _never_ tactful. "Ninety-one's a _wee_ bit high to exit a corner like that. I would have taken it in the mid-to high eighties myself."

"If you were taking the standard line, yes. I was taking the late apex line. My exit speed was fine. It was my reaction to the squirrel that did it."

"Aye, well. The squirrel's paid for its sins."

"I'm paying for mine as well, don't worry."

"Can I assume that means Her Royal Highness wasn't entirely satisfied with the course of events?"

That was a Fenbrand-worthy statement right there. "Let's just say, she had a few strong opinions on the matter, yes," Eomer said, producing one of his own.

"To be fair, sir, you gave us all an _awful_ scare."

Was this the next lecture coming, with Marcher snark and swearing on top? "Brendal, if you're planning to chew me out for what happened, don't waste your time. Between my sister, Fastmer, Colwenna and Algrin, I've already had all the chewings out I can take."

Brendal grinned. "Wouldn't dream of chewing you out, sir. I'm just a lowly motorcycle mechanic. Not my place to lecture someone as illustrious as a King."

No lecture, but there was the snark already. And the swearing probably wouldn't be too far behind…

Eomer turned to gesture at the 'foot. "She's a bit of a mess, isn't she?"

"She certainly is."

"What's the verdict on the damage?" Eomer asked as he circled the bike, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the response. "Are we or are we not writing her off?"

"You'll be pleased to know, we're doing no such thing."

The feeling that flooded through him—happiness, gratitude, relief. No need to bury his beautiful baby just yet. "The damage is all fixable, then?"

Brendal nodded. "Absolutely."

"No problems with the engine or frame?"

"Not a thing." Brendal came to stand by the damaged left side. "I took her down to the Harvell facility yesterday, had them run a full scan on the structure. No cracks, no warping, no hidden damage." He tapped the handlebar, scuffed and scraped, gestured at the shattered fairing. "What you can see is what needs to be fixed."

"And you can fix it?"

"Course I can. It's mostly just installing new parts. The only thing I won't do is touch up the paint. But I have someone lined up for that. A guy I know. He's really good."

"How long do you think it'll take?"

"Depends on how much other work you give me."

Not too much, given he wouldn't be riding for a few weeks. "If you work only on this, could she be ready for the third of July?"

"Maybe." Brendal frowned. "Why? What's happening on the third of July?"

"That's when I'm starting my Midsummer break."'

"You don't usually take the bikes to Aldburg with you."

Eomer couldn't help but grin—this was the part Brendal was going to love. "Yes, except I'm not going to Aldburg this year."

"Really?"

"Nope."

"Where the fuck are you going then?" Brendal winced. "Sorry, sir, where on _earth_ are you going then, I should say?"

"To Isendale."

"Isendale?" Brendal repeated, volume and brows shooting up. "The hell are you going there for?" This time, he didn't bother correcting himself.

"I decided, after the election results, that it might be good to spend some time in the March."

"Trying to stop the natives from getting too restless?"

Eomer smiled. "Something along those lines, yes."

"Can I offer some advice on the matter?"

"Of course."

"Take your break in the March by all means, but be _really_ careful how you play it. Don't go swanning in as if you own the whole place, or act as if the locals should feel grateful you've come for a visit."

Technically, he _did_ own the whole place, but probably best not to say it out loud. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

"Am I allowed to ask where in Isendale you're going?"

Eomer nodded. "A house out in the northwest. In a suburb called Seigoth."

"Oof. That's fancy."

"You know the area?"

"I certainly do. I grew up in a house two suburbs over. A nice, normal one, though. When I was a kid, me and my pals used to ride our bicycles over to Seigoth, look at all the big houses, see how long it took before some curtain twitcher called the security guys to chase us away."

"Sounds like a welcoming place."

Brendal shrugged. "Just the way rich people are." Grinning again, he added, "Present company excepted, of course."

"Of course."

"The house you're going to, by any chance, is it on a lake?"

"It is, yes."

The grin grew wider. "That'll be quite convenient for you."

"How so?"

"Because you'll be right next to the Hamelmark holding, sir. It's on the lake at Seigoth as well."

"And why would that be convenient for me?" Eomer asked, trying to look and sound perplexed.

"So you can, you know…" Brendal broke off, searching for words.

"So I can what?"

Brendal heaved a 'fuck it all' sigh. "It's just, I figured since Lady Solwen came to have drinks on Tuesday that the two of you were, you know, _involved_?"

Involved. What a lovely way to describe it—as if he and Solwen were planning a murder together. "It was just a meet-up for drinks." And that was as much as he wanted to say on the matter for now. He trusted Brendal, but at the end of the day, theirs was still an employer-employee relationship. He would share personal information, but only up to a certain point.

"Have you ever been to the Hamelmark holding?" Brendal asked, sensing a change of subject was needed.

"I haven't, no. There was a wake, back at the house, after the late Countess's funeral, but we had to be back in Edoras for another event that evening, so we didn't have time to attend. What about you? You ever visited?"

Brendal nodded. "A few times, yes." He smiled. "But only because of my mum's connection. Haradoc, the Earl's father, he's very attentive to the old customs that way. Always invites the Giantsbanes in the area to any parties, whether he knows them well or not. Lovely place. Beautiful setting."

If it was on a lake, that seemed a given. "Is it big? The holding, I mean?" Eomer asked.

"Massive."

"Really?"

"It's the main reason the city hasn't expanded in that direction. All the land that way belongs to the Earl, and he won't sell any of it."

"No reason he should."

"True. But it's been a point of contention for a few people. Mostly housing developers, I'll add, trying to build some more mansions. Not anyone you'd ever want to have a lot of sympathy with."

Time for the next moment of fun. "If the Earl invite us over, you can show me around."

Brendal blinked. "Sorry?"

"Didn't I mention, I want you to come to Isendale with me?" Eomer asked, knowing he'd done no such thing.

"No, sir. You most certainly did not."

"I know I don't usually have you come with me over Midsummer, but I'd quite like to have you along this time. You've mentioned a few times how many great riding roads there are in the March, I figured you'd make a good guide."

"What if I have other plans?"

" _Do_ you have other plans?"

"Not specific plans, no." Frowning, Brendal crossed his arms. "But what if I want to spend the break on my couch, drinking beer and watching shitty television?"

"You'll still be able to do plenty of that, I won't keep you enormously busy." Eomer thought of a way to sweeten the deal. "And the beer will be on me."

"Really?"

"As long as you don't try to drink me out of house and home, yes."

Brendal sighed.

"You'll be able to see your family," Eomer offered, remembering what Brendal had just said about where his parents lived.

"Aye, that's half the bloody problem."

"Sorry?"

Another sigh. "There's a reason I don't go home very much, sir. My mum"—Brendal grimaced—"she tends to, well, _nag_ would be the best way to put it."

"Nag?"

"Nag, aye. About why I don't visit more often, or call more often, or when I'm going to find a nice girl to settle down and make babies with."

Some problems were universal, it seemed. Maybe Eowyn and Brendal's mum should have a chat over coffee, swap strategies and notes. Oh, and while they were at it, probably Mordulf's mother as well. "When did you last see your parents?"

"Not sure. Yule, I think. I speak to them every few weeks, but I haven't been up to the March for a while."

"If you come to Isendale with me, you'll have plenty of time to catch up with them." Eomer grinned. "You ask me nicely, I might even pop by and say 'hello' to them."

"Bema, please don't," Brendal pleaded. "I mean, I'm sure they'd be honoured, don't get me wrong, but my mum would try to clean the whole street."

Yes, that would probably happen. Everywhere he or Eowyn went, people were always cleaning or painting things, as if it was a crime against Eru himself to let them see something damaged or messy. "Think about it?" Eomer said. "Let me know soon?"

"It's fine. I'll come to Isendale with you. If I don't, and something goes wrong, either I'll have to drive up to deal with it, or you'll have to call a local garage, and then I'll just sit here and get all paranoid about what they're doing to my bikes."

" _Your_ bikes?"

Brendal's smile was blameless. "Purely in a responsibility sense, Your Majesty. I wouldn't _dream_ of ever implying I own them."

"Uh huh."

"When are you heading up?"

"I told Fenbrand I want to be there for the evening of the third. He's dealing with all the arrangements."

"Can I ask, how many people are you taking with you?"

"As few as I can get away with. My protection team, obviously. Maybe a couple of Algrin's people as well. A driver, someone to deal with food, someone to deal with the house." He shrugged. "No idea. I'm leaving other people to figure that out." He had enough on his job plate already.

"And how many bikes will you want to take with you?"

"Three, I think. The Firefoot, if she's up to it. The SXR, definitely. And probably the KMT as well."

Brendal nodded, approving. "That's a good mix. I'd leave the Conquest at home, though. The roads I'm thinking you'll want to try, they're not really good for a cafe racer."

"Can you take care of that for me? Have them all ready to go on the third?" Plus a bike for Brendal himself, and for all Fastmer's people, but Brendal would know to build those into his plan.

"Of course. I'll load everything into the trailer, drive them up there myself."

"Good man. We'll talk more nearer the time." He was halfway to the door when he remembered what he'd actually come here to do. "Oh, and I almost forgot, there's one other thing," Eomer said, turning back.

"What's that, sir?"

A small lump formed in Eomer's throat; this was harder than he'd expected. Ridiculous, really. It was only a bike. "When you're fixing the 'foot, I'd like you strip out all the extra stuff we put in, switch her back to factory settings."

The brows went up again. "Seriously?"

Sighing, Eomer nodded. "I've decided, after what happened on Sunday, it's time to put my track days behind me."

"Can't say I'm entirely surprised, sir. With all due respect, track racing's a young man's game."

"I'm only thirty-four, Brendal. You don't need to measure me up for a burial mound just yet."

"Of course not, sir, and I meant no offense. But there's a reason even the professionals get out of the game when they hit their mid-thirties. The older you get, the harder it is to come back from any accidents you have. You've only had one, and it wasn't bad, as accidents go, but it was bad enough to give you a fright. And it's not as if you're racing to earn a living. Definitely a good idea to take what happened as a warning, quit while you're ahead."

"You're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry?"

"I know how much time it took you to do all the work in the first place. And now I'm asking you to rip it all out."

Brendal shrugged. "It'll be a tiny bit frustrating, yes, especially clearing the mods on the chip, it took me forever to program them in, but at the end of the day, you're the one who pays my wages. If you want me to strip stuff out, I'll strip stuff out. That's all there is to it."

"Thank you." Eomer turned to leave again. "I'll let you get back to what you were doing. Keep me posted about how the work's going."

"I certainly will."

As the King strode out the door, Brendal cursed under his breath. And not just a regular curse—the most vicious, most ear-burning curse he could summon.

Three weeks in Isendale, a stone's throw from his mum and dad's house.

And a stone's throw from his ex-wife as well—far too bloody close for his liking. He'd moved to Edoras for a few reasons, and the former Mrs. Jordelane was right at the top of the fucking list.

But he worked for the King, and the King had asked to him go to Isendale for the break, so mother or not, ex-wife or not, Isendale was where he was going.

He would call his parents tonight, let them know he was coming home for a while, quietly ask his dad to make sure his mum didn't immediately blab the news to everyone on the whole street.

At least his chances of running into Ragnill were slim. The kind of people the King was likely to socialize with in the March—she wouldn't know any of them from Bema…


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Countess of Keveleok presents Thenwis's petition. Solwen has a run in with her least favourite Earl, but a phone call brightens her day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of politics in this one - feel free to skim over the bits you're not interested in :)

High heels clicked across stone, slowly but surely moving his way.

Who the _hell_ was coming to talk to him now? A woman, obviously, unless one of his male colleagues was trying something different this week. Not Keveleok, he hoped; he had nothing to say to her today. Or any other day, for that matter…

To his relief, a few seconds later, the Countess of Darkfald appeared at his side.

"Countess, hello," Duncan said, showing the Leader of the Hall his warmest and most welcoming smile. He stubbed his cigarette out and flicked the butt into the trash. "How are you today?"

Erella Darkfald rolled her eyes. "Please. Enough of the 'Countess' crap. We've known each other for thirty-odd years."

That they had, and not just as friends. Although, that had only been once, a long time ago, when neither of them was married.

She gestured at the discarded butt. "I thought you'd given them up."

Duncan shrugged. "I started again."

"What made you do that?"

"You mean, apart from being an earl, being married, and having all three of my kids at home for the first time in eight years?"

She snorted. "Should try having four. And at least one of your kids is a girl."

Except, Solly was causing him more trouble than both of her half-brothers combined. She was at least forty percent of the reason he'd taken up smoking again. "At least you've only been married once. I'm still beating you there."

"Duncan, you're beating _everyone_ in the Hall there. Even Strone hasn't managed three wives."

Grinning, he turned to lean on the railing, admiring the view out over the river. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence today?"

"I'm not sure I'd call the reason a pleasure." She joined him at the railing. "It's about Keveleok's petition," she added in a low voice.

Which, according to Duncan's watch, was due to be put to the Hall in twenty-two minutes. "What about it?" he said.

"I spoke to her about it this morning. She told me she wants the rebuttal and vote by the end of next week."

He jerked upright in shock. "Next _week_?" he repeated, fighting to keep his voice down. "Is she _insane_? For something as important as this?"

"She wants it done before we break for Midsummer," Erella explained. "We don't have room in the week of the twenty-second, and we won't have enough people here on the twenty-ninth to meet the minimum voting numbers."

"Have you spoken to the Custodian's people?

Tight-lipped, she nodded. "He wants it done before Midsummer as well."

No surprise there—for all the Custodian was supposed to be neutral, everyone knew which side of the Hall he preferred. He would be eating out of Keveleok's hand. And probably Camelor's as well. "Did he say why?"

"His official excuse is that he doesn't want to leave it hanging over the summer. Especially not with the oath anniversary thing coming up."

That was certainly something they had to consider. "Would be a bit awkward, wouldn't it? Hosting the High King of Gondor while we're having a massive fight about who our own King should be."

"We don't _fight_ , Duncan," she said in her firmest school teacher voice. "We _debate_ , remember?"

" _You_ can debate. _I'd_ rather fight."

"So I've noticed," was her bone-dry reply.

"So, what you're telling me is, someone in the Hall has a week to prepare the formal rebuttal."

"Correct."

"Had any volunteers yet?"

"I'd like to take a shot at it myself, go for the legal angle. Address how much damage it could do if we start retroactively invalidating legal decisions."

"That's a pretty good angle to take." And given Erella's impressive qualifications—a Bachelor's in Political Science and a Master's in Constitutional Law—few people in the Hall were better placed than her to pursue it. "Anyone else?"

Her smile was polite. "Lord Hereoch's offered to help, but for reasons I'm sure you'll understand, I'd rather not let him anywhere near it."

"He'll bore everyone so much, they'll vote to pass the petition just out of spite."

"Oh, and Lord Strone has offered to help out as well."

Duncan shook his head. "He just got caught cheating on his new wife. Not sympathetic enough."

"She knew he was cheating. And it's 2020. Nobody cares."

"Doesn't matter. Still doesn't look good." And why Strone had gone to the trouble of getting married again, Duncan wasn't quite sure. If he couldn't stay faithful to his new wife, why hadn't he just stayed single instead?

"I _did_ have one other idea," Erella said.

"Oh? What's that?"

"I was thinking, maybe you could help."

He should really have seen that one coming. Why else would she be raising the issue with him? It wasn't as if she didn't have plenty of other people to go to when she needed advice. "You're not just here for the pleasure of my company, then?"

"Duncan, your company's _always_ a pleasure." She patted his hand. "But not today, no."

"I'm flattered, truly, but I don't see how I can help. I have no expertise at all on the issue." Even Hereoch could provide more support—the man knew everything there was to know about the House of Eorl's marriage laws, not to mention the various laws of succession.

"It's not your expertise I need," she said, turning to face him directly. "It's your creativeness. Your talent for coming up with an angle nobody else would ever dream of using. And for then addressing it in a way that makes everyone want to support it. Like what you did with that health care bill last year. Your speech on that was a work of art."

Bema. She was pulling all the stops out today. "Except, there's no angle I can see on this that you haven't already covered. It's a legal matter, pure and simple. A debate about how valid or invalid Princess Thengwen's renunciation of her rights was."

She heaved a deep sigh. "Would you at least give it some thought?" She moved in closer to murmur, "And before you refuse me outright, you should know, I took a phone call just before lunch. From an extremely interested party"—brows raised, she carefully pointed up at the Palace—"wanting to know who's going to give the rebuttal."

"A male party?"

She shook her head.

Her Royal Highness, then. He wasn't surprised; everyone knew the Countess and the Princess were friends. He wondered how much of what went on in the Hall Erella passed on to the Palace. "No promises, but I'll think about it." He needed to look at the files on that drive, as soon as possible, it seemed. See if anything in them would give him some kind of hook. "I'm heading to Isendale for a meeting tomorrow, I'll call you when I get back."

"I won't ask for more than that."

"That'll be a first," he retorted.

"I’m not entirely sure I like the sound of what you're implying, My Lord."

He grinned. "Only that you're a woman who likes to get her own way." He didn't add—and who rarely gave up before she got it.

"In the Hall, yes. If it's any consolation, I'm not having much luck getting my own way at home."

"The tribe giving you trouble again?"

"I have a husband and four sons, and I can't get _any_ of them to do what I want. Just last night, Garomer had a meltdown for thirty minutes because I asked him to put some dishes in the dishwasher for me. Was like I'd just asked him to sell his most prized possessions. You've never seen anything like it."

The joys of the late teenage years. "If you'd like to try something new, I'll swap you Garomer for Solwen."

Erella frowned. "She giving you trouble again?"

When was she not? But this time, the trouble was more specific. "She's _dating_ someone," Duncan revealed. "And she won't tell me a thing about him. Not even his name, or what he does for a living."

"Can you blame the poor girl?"

"The hell does that mean?"

"It means, you're one of the nosiest bastards on the whole planet. If I was your daughter, I wouldn't tell you what my shoe size was, never mind who I was having sex with."

"Bema, Erella, don’t say that word, please," he pleaded.

"What, sex?" Erella let out a laugh. "Duncan, she's twenty-eight. She's probably slept with more people than you have."

Abort, abort, abort. He held up a blocking hand. "Let's change the subject, please."

The door to the terrace opened again. Jonrick Amerwen hurried towards them, tapping the face of his watch. "Almost time," he said, nodding to greet Erella. "The Custodian's in a bit of a snit. Wants everyone in their seats ASAP."

Erella let out a sigh. "Let's go see what Keveleok has to say."

The clock on the wall hit two o'clock, the Custodian banged his rod on the floor to bring the Hall to order. Once he had total silence, he said, "We cede the floor to the Countess of Keveleok."

The Countess rose from her seat, directly across from where Erella, Duncan and Jonrick were sitting. "Thank you, My Lord," she said, sending an acknowledging bow the Custodian's way. "I would like to ask the Hall's permission to prevent a private petition."

"Has the petitioner declared their intent?" the Custodian asked, starting the usual, formal procedures.

"She has, My Lord, yes," Keveleok said. "On the morning of Monday the eighth of June, in The Edoras Times."

The Custodian's next question was to the whole room. "Has any member of the Hall found any deficiency with the petitioner's declaration?"

Nobody said a word.

The rod banged again. "Lady Keveleok, you may proceed."

In a voice that was clear and bright and easy to hear, the Countess started her speech. "Honourable members of the Hall, today, I present a petition on behalf of Miss Thenwis Colafell, a private citizen of the Kingdom of Rohan." She gestured to the balcony, and there was Thenwis herself, sitting not just with her mother and sister, but also two middle-aged women Duncan assumed were her aunts, and to his surprise, her eighty-two-year-old royal grandmother. A murmur ran through the Hall, and rightly so—Thengwen hadn't been seen in public for almost four years. She still had her regal bearing, but in Duncan's opinion, she looked awfully frail— ironically, much frailer than her one-hundred-and-four-year-old mother. Bema only knew how much it had taken for her to be here today.

"Talk about having a royal seal of approval?" Jonrick leaned in to murmur.

Not royal, not anymore, but still a heavy hitter to have on your side. And the presence of so many Colafells sent a crystal clear message—this wasn't something Thenwis was just doing for herself. The whole Colafell clan was behind her.

Jonrick nudged him again. "She's not the only one who's come to watch the proceedings, I see," he said, nodding to another spectator, sitting down the side of the balcony, right above the Countess of Keveleok's seat.

Duncan blinked in surprise; what the hell was Solwen doing here? Did she care that much about the petition, or had she just come to watch her dad work? If he got up to speak, he would have to watch what he said…

Her first point made, the Countess took charge again. "I know it's customary to begin a presentation of a petition with a reading of the full text." She held up a copy of The Edoras Times. "I have it here, but if there are no objections, I'd like to skip the reading and get straight to the heart of the matter." She scanned the Hall, looking for signs of dissent, found none, nodded and took a deep breath.

"Sixty-one years ago, in the summer of 1959, Her Royal Highness The Princess Thengwen, as she was then known, the eldest of the five children born to King Thengel and Queen Morwen of Rohan, met and fell in love with a young man named Heredred Colafell. By all accounts, Heredred was a remarkable young man. The kind of man every parent would be delighted to have their daughter marry. Well-educated, hard-working, conscientious, reliable, generous, kind. He served in the Army during The Third Southern War, earning three mentions in dispatches and two citations for courage. After the War, he established his own transportation business. By the time he and Princess Thengwen met, he was one of the most successful businessmen in the kingdom, and a millionaire in his own right."

The Countess heaved a theatrical sigh. "Unfortunately, Heredred was also something the King and Queen could never accept. A commoner. And an undistinguished commoner, at that. Not the son of a high-ranking civil servant, or of a long-established banking dynasty, or of a family with ties to the Crown. The son of a railway carter and a school teacher."

Smiling sadly, she looked around. "Had Princess Thengwen been the youngest of the King and Queen's daughters, it's entirely possible they would have given her request to marry Heredred Colafell their blessing. But she wasn’t their youngest daughter. She was their eldest daughter, in a family with a single son. A son who, at that point, was only seventeen years old, and many years away from making his own marriage. With Thengwen being so close to the Crown, the King and Queen decided she was too important to waste on a man of no rank. They intended a grand alliance for her, to an Earl or a Gondorian prince, to ensure that, if the worst _did_ come to pass, if Prince Theoden's line failed, and their eldest daughter inherited the Crown, that her children, future princes and princesses of Rohan, should not suffer the shame of unquartered arms."

"Perish the thought," Duncan—the bearer of unquartered arms—muttered.

"King Thengel and Queen Morwen therefore refused to allow the marriage. Correspondence from the time shows, the matter was discussed for months, and put on hold completely when Queen Morwen discovered she was pregnant with her fifth child. Had that child been a second son, the King and Queen might have granted their daughter's request. Sadly, that child was a fourth daughter, Princess Theodwyn, and Princess Thengwen's situation remained unchanged. Realizing her parents would never give their approval, she married Heredred Colafell in the spring of 1961, in a small ceremony, with no family members in attendance. Since neither the King nor Parliament has ever held the power to prevent the marriage of persons who are free and willing to marry, Heredred and Thengwen became husband and wife. However, as Thengwen married without her father's consent, she was required to renounce not only her royal title and style, but also her right to inherit the Crown, as per the terms of the Royal Marriages Act of 1882. For the purposes of the royal succession, she was and still is legally dead. And because dead people can't have children, so are all of her descendants, regardless of where they were born, or what state of marriage they were born in."

"Under normal circumstances, Thengwen's exclusion from the succession would simply have been another footnote in the tumultuous history of the House of Eorl. But the last sixty years have been a trying time for King Thengel and Queen Morwen's descendants, as far from normal as circumstances could possibly be. Crown Prince Theoden did indeed go on to marry, but had only a single legitimate child. Tragically, that child, Crown Prince Theodred, pre-deceased his father by two years. When Theoden died, the Crown passed not to his eldest sister, Princess Thengwen, not to his second sister, Princess Morghild, not even to his third sister, Princess Eorwena, but to his nephew, Eomer, the Earl of Aldburg, the son of his fourth and youngest sister, the late Princess Theodwyn. Eomer had already been named as Theoden's legal heir, and his succession to the Crown, when it eventually came, went _completely_ unchallenged."

The Countess's voice turned cold. "It went completely unchallenged at the time, but I am here today, on behalf of Thenwis Colafell, to challenge it now. To ask the Hall not only to restore Princess Thengwen and her descendants to the succession, but also to recognise her granddaughter, who is Thengwen's heir by precedence and seniority, as the rightful, legal occupant of the Rohanese Crown."

You could have heard a hummingbird fart in the silence that followed.

Keveleok had actually done it. She'd _actually_ come into the Hall and asked the assembled Lords of Rohan to kick a reigning King off the throne.

Whatever else Duncan thought about her (and most days, it wasn't much), he had to admit—the woman had balls.

The Countess held up a placating hand. "I know what many of you are thinking. Nobody forced Princess Thengwen to marry Heredred Colafell. She did so of her own free will, knowing that in becoming his wife, she would lose her claim to the Crown. Just as Princess Morghild knew she would lose hers in marrying the Prince of Erech, and choosing to live and raise her children in Gondor."

A few seats down from Jonrick, the Earl of Kemeter stood up. "If we examine the issue of Princess Thengwen's rights, should we not examine the issue of Princess Morghild's as well?"

"In theory, yes, I suppose we should." The Countess held her hands wide. "But what would be the point? Princess Thengwen is the older sister, and will always be the older sister. Since Princess Morghild can never displace her in the birth order, it's a completely moot point."

Kemeter nodded, accepting her answer and quickly sat down.

"Can't argue with that," Duncan murmured to Jonrick.

Jonrick let out a snort. " _You_ probably could, if you tried hard enough."

The Countess of Darkfald turned to shoot them a silencing glare.

Keveleok continued. "Having covered the legal basis of the petition, I'd now like to address why the Hall should vote to approve it. I'll keep it simple, boil it down to two words." She held up two fingers to count the words off. "Justice, and duty."

Duncan knew what that second word meant. She was going to go after the King's reputation, tarnish it, ruin it, imply he wasn't up to the job. "I think His Majesty's going to need a few calming drinks tonight," he whispered to Jonrick.

Erella turned on them again, this time, armed with more than a glare. "Would the two of you please be quiet," she said. "This is the Hall of Lords, not a Second School assembly."

Duncan rolled his eyes, Jonrick's response was a grin and a wink. But neither of them said anything more—they both knew not to fuck with the Countess of Darkfald when she was in a stern mood.

"I'll address the justice question first," Keveleok explained. "Princess Thengwen, having been born in lawful wedlock, as the eldest child of a King who was lawfully married to his wife, was denied the right to inherit her father's Crown, not because of any crime on her part, not because she had been ruled to be incompetent or unworthy, not even because of her gender, as daughters were then allowed to inherit failing the birth of a son, but merely and only because she wished to marry a man who, like ninety-nine percent of his countrymen, was not of Landed birth."

The Earl of Elgoll stood up. "With all due respect"—he aimed a quick bow at Thengwen—"Princess Thengwen was not born and fully raised in Rohan. That would be grounds to exclude her from the Crown now."

"But it was not grounds to exclude her at the time," the Countess shot back. "That law was passed two years into her father's reign, to directly address concerns some people had raised about how long he'd lived abroad. And the law was never made retroactive."

Duncan winced; that was a silly mistake. Fortunately, one Lord Elgoll noticed as well. The Earl let out a slight laugh. "Lady Keveleok, you cannot have it both ways."

"I don't believe I’m trying to."

"Oh, but you absolutely are."

"Explain, please."

"Because what stands for one law, must stand for all," the Earl thundered. "If you ask us to retroactively remove Princess Thengwen's exclusion, why should we not retroactively apply the birth and residence law to her and her siblings?"

"But nobody is asking the Hall to retroactively apply that law, My Lord. Your argument is invalid."

"She's getting tetchy," Jonrick murmured.

"But what if someone did?" the Earl of Elgoll said. "For instance, Eomer King? His mother was born in Rohan. The only one of King Thengel's children who was, I should add." His smile was coldly polite. "If you have _your_ change, he should have his. And his change would make him King all over again, would it not?"

The Custodian banged his rod on the floor. "Lord Elgoll, please restrict your input to simple questions. Longer arguments should wait for the formal rebuttal."

Elgoll bowed again, acquiescing. "Of course, My Lord. My apologies." But he smiled as he sat, knowing he'd made a good point.

Duncan leaned forward to whisper to Erella, "There's a good candidate for you right there. To own the rebuttal, I mean."

"I was already planning to argue that angle," Erella whispered back. "But I'm not sure I want Lord Elgoll to do it."

"He's a persuasive speaker. Respected and liked. You could do a lot worse."

"He's too close to the King. Everyone would assume His Majesty had taken a hand in whatever he said."

That was a fair point to make. "But still something to think about, yes?"

"Only if I have no other options."

Like him and his creativity, she meant. Whatever the hell his 'creativity' was. He assumed not just standing up and swearing at people…

As he leaned back, he briefly caught the Earl of Camelor's eye. Rogen held his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away.

Keveleok resumed, tetchier now, perhaps realizing she'd made her first error. "The matter stands, that Princess Thengwen was deprived of her right to inherit the Crown through absolutely no fault of her own. Because of nothing more than old-fashioned views on class. Views the vast majority of honest, hard-working Rohanese people would now consider embarrassing at best, and deeply offensive at worst."

Jonrick leaned in again. "I assume this means she won't mind if her only son wants to marry a waitress," he said.

"You never know," Duncan said. "The lad might decide he prefers the waiters instead."

"We have always prided ourselves on being a just and fair people," Keveleok said. "And people who are just and fair do not allow injustice to happen. And when it _does_ happen, they take steps to undo it, to make amends as well as they can, to restore what has been taken or lost."

The Countess of Thelanor stood up. "But no laws have been broken," she pointed out.

Keveleok nodded. "You're quite correct. No laws _have_ been broken. But the law and justice are two different things. Not all things that are legal are right, not all things that are right are legal."

A hum of approval ran through the Hall; the mood swung back to the Countess again.

The elderly Earl of Sunhold was next. "It's all very well to talk about justice, but how do you propose we correct one wrong without committing another? His Majesty played no part in what happened to Princess Thengwen. Even if you believe what King Thengel and Queen Morwen did was wrong, it was their error, not his. He doesn't deserve to be stripped of his Crown."

"You'll forgive my bluntness, My Lord, but I would argue he does."

The pleading for justice was done—the assassination was about to begin…

The Countess held up a hand to silence the rumble of discontent. "Honoured colleagues, hear me out, please." She grabbed a newspaper from her desk to hold it aloft. "This is a copy of The Edoras Times, from Monday the thirteenth of April. The editorial piece it contains, extremely well-written in my opinion, voices some major and widely-held concerns regarding the House of Eorl, namely, the precariousness of the succession, and His Majesty's apparent aversion to marriage."

The Earl of Elgoll shot up again. "What proof do you have these concerns are widely-held?"

Smiling in triumph, the Countess put the newspaper down to pick up another. "This follow-up piece, published a few days later, showing the results of a poll, in which seventy-four percent of respondents said they were at least somewhat concerned with the state of the succession."

Scowling, defeated, Lord Elgoll sat down.

Time to throw his hat in the ring. Smiling politely, Duncan stood up. "The Edoras Times is a right-of-centre newspaper with a pro-monarchy base," he pointed out. "I'm quite sure if you ran the same poll in The Record or The Herald instead, you'd find out quite a lot of Rohanese people don't even know what the succession is, much less give a damn about what condition it's in."

The Custodian banged his rod. "Lord Hamelmark, you have already received two warnings about improper language this year. Don't make me issue another."

Duncan inclined his head. "My apologies, My Lord. But my point stands. I suspect if you took a nationwide poll, across all age groups and social classes, the results would be nowhere near as damning as the Countess suggests." Message delivered, he reclaimed his seat.

He looked up to find Solwen flashing a thumbs up at him.

"Regardless of what such a poll would show, the fact of the matter is, the King's lack of attention to the succession is now a serious cause for concern." The Countess paused for effect. "As is the _utterly_ reckless manner in which His Majesty conducts himself." She raised another paper, showing one of the photos from Monday's edition of The Times. "I'm quite sure you've all seen these photos, of our childless, unmarried King, suffering a life-threatening crash while racing at the Gleodream Track on Sunday."

Sighing in frustration, Elgoll stood up again. "There's no need for hyperbole, My Lady. The crash didn't come anywhere _near_ threatening His Majesty's life. He suffered nothing more than a few bumps and bruises."

Keveleok nodded. "This time, yes." She put the newspaper down. "But I'm reliably informed His Majesty races at speeds approaching _three hundred_ kilometres per hour." She paused to let the number sink in. And it was certainly an astonishing number—Duncan couldn't think when he'd driven even half that fast.

"And we all know, he doesn't just speed on the track," the Countess added. "We've all seen him dashing around Edoras, read the stories about the traffic police pulling him over. And would it interest the Hall to know, that His Majesty sometimes gives his protective detail the slip so he can ride on his own? As recently as two months ago?"

Duncan leaned forward. "Is that true?" he whispered to Erella. "About the protective detail, I mean?"

Erella gave the smallest of nods.

Bema. Someone should really explain to the King how absolutely vital it was he never went anywhere unprotected. Especially not on a bike. Talk about idiotic?

But not so idiotic he should be made to give up the Crown…

The Countess wielded her paper again. "When I read all this, do you know what I see? I see a man who's happy to take the privileges of the job, but who wants none of the duties. A man who loves to play, but who doesn't want to work. And if the Custodian will please excuse my language, that pisses me off. The kingdom deserves better. The people of Rohan deserve better."

Duncan made to stand up again; Erella Darkfald beat him to it. "He's just riding a motorcycle, My Lady," she said in a mild voice. "Not playing Ranger Roulette."

Another rumble—approving this time.

"But it shows us how reckless he is. And how little regard he has for the needs of his people."

The needs of his people. Bema, where the hell did Keveleok come up with rubbish like this? Talk about pompous and melodramatic?

As soon as Erella sat down, Duncan shot to his feet. "So, if we follow your argument to its logical conclusion, nobody in any kind of important public position should ever be allowed to do anything reckless?"

"For people as vital to the functioning of the kingdom as the monarch, one could argue that, yes."

Duncan heaved a sigh. "Okay, well. Are you going to go and tell the Prime Minister she has to give up rock climbing, or am I?"

A titter of laughter ran through the Hall.

"That's an entirely different matter," an irate Keveleok shot back.

"I'm sorry, Lady Keveleok, but I don't think it is. I've actually done some research on how dangerous motorcycles are, and they're nowhere near as bad as you think."

"Really?" Keveleok said, her voice both impatient and dripping with scorn.

Duncan nodded, trying not to grin. He was going to milk this moment for all it was worth. "It's all because of my daughter, you see. When she was sixteen, she told me she wanted to learn to ride, and I was rather keen to dissuade her, me being the loving, protective father I am." He slid his gaze to Camelor, who blanked him again. "Unfortunately, the research I did wasn't much help." He turned to address the whole Hall. "Would it interest my honoured colleagues to know, you're more likely to die as a result of _having sex_ than you are from riding a motorcycle?"

A ripple of laughter again.

The Custodian banged his rod. "Lord Hamelmark, you will refrain from using improper language, please."

"Apologies, My Lord, I meant no offence. I was simply offering a counter-argument with an established statistical basis." He turned back to the Countess. "And even if riding a motorcycle _was_ as risky as everyone thinks, has it occurred to my honoured colleague there's a much simpler solution?"

The Countess sighed. "And pray tell, Lord Hamelmark, what would that be?"

"Instead of using this so-called reckless behaviour as your reason to strip the King of his Crown, perhaps we should just go to the Palace and politely ask him not to do it?" Point made, Duncan reclaimed his seat.

Keveleok smirked. "The motorcycle riding is just one symptom of a larger problem, My Lord. That problem being, His Majesty shows too little concern for the duties and responsibilities of his position." Her next remarks were to the whole Hall. "I say, if King Eomer is not willing to do the job the way it needs to be done, it should be taken from him and given to someone who is."

Lord Hereoch pushed himself to his feet. "We do not choose our monarchs here, My Lady," he boomed. "The King is the King by right of descent from Eorl."

"This is not Gondor, Lord Hereoch," Keveleok shot back. "Our monarchs are not chosen by Eru. We respect our monarchy, but it is not a sacred, inviolate institution. Parliament is supreme in these lands. Even the Crown itself is subordinate to it. _We_ have the power to decide who should be our King." She paused. "Or, rather, who should _not_ be our King." She shuffled her papers together. "Honoured colleagues, I put to you that Eomer Eomundson, formerly the Earl of Aldburg, is neither the lawful holder of our Crown, nor a person who deserves to hold it. I also put to you, that Thenwis Colafell, the general heir of Princess Thengwen, should be recognized as our Queen in his place. Eomer's time on the throne is done. He should now become part of our past. It's time for a new monarch, a young, dedicated, responsible monarch, to lead us into the future."

Job done, Keveleok sat down.

"Well, then," Jonrick murmured. "That'll be that."

The Custodian took over. "Does the petition have a second?" he asked, looking around.

Jothren Romengar got to his feet—his moment in the spotlight had come. "I second the petition," he said, turning to bow to Princess Thengwen before he sat down.

And there it was, just as Solwen had said—Keveleok leading the charge, but using Romengar as her horse. And where did Camelor fit in? Was he the general at the back of the field, quietly directing the plan? Or was he the guy sneaking back to the city to fuck everyone daughters and wives while the men were off dying in battle? Rogen was in there somewhere; Duncan just didn't know how. He _really_ had to look at those files.

"This concludes the presentation of the petition," the Custodian announced. He banged his rod on the floor again. "The official rebuttal will take place at one o'clock on Thursday the eighteenth of June. Who will present themselves to organize it?" he asked, looking around.

The Countess of Darkfald and the Earl of Elgoll stood up. Lord Elgoll smiled and dipped his head in Erella's direction. "I defer to Her Ladyship's expertise."

The Countess returned the nod. "Thank you, My Lord." To the Custodian, she said, "I will organize the rebuttal, sir."

"Very well. All parties wishing to participate in the rebuttal should submit to the Countess of Darkfald for consideration." The Custodian banged his rod again. "This concludes our business for today."

As the Custodian rose from his chair, the Lords got to their feet. Duncan's gaze drifted up to the balcony. The Colafells were gathering to leave, but there was no sign of Solwen. She would probably be waiting for him outside.

"Drink?" Jonrick suggested.

"Jonno, you just read my mind."

He'd barely set a foot in his office before Colwenna arrived.

She dropped her planner on his desk with a thud. "Sunday morning," she said, pointing to the top of the page.

"Sorry?" Eomer said.

"You asked me to find some room in your schedule for your _guest_ to visit again," Colwenna explained, sensibly not naming names. She tapped on the page. "Your first engagement is at noon on Sunday, so you have the whole morning free, the same as last week." She flipped a few pages forward. "After that, the best you can do is eight-thirty next Thursday night."

He wasn't waiting a week to see Solwen again. But if he saw her on Sunday, he would probably want to see her next Thursday as well. "Let's do both," he decided.

"Both?"

"Both, yes. Have her over for breakfast on Sunday, then for drinks next Thursday night." He grabbed his water jug to fill his glass. "Might as well be efficient, right? Kill two dragons with one arrow." Or however that saying went.

"Yes, I suppose we might." She brought out her pen, blocked out the last two hours of Thursday, then flicked back to block out the first two hours of Sunday as well. Job done, she slammed the planner shut and tucked it under her arm. "I'll call her today, take care of everything for you."

"Actually, no, you don't need to do that. Call her, I mean." Eomer brought out his phone. "I have her personal number now. I can call her myself."

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?" The call would only go to Solwen, or to her voicemail if she couldn't pick up, so he didn't have to worry about talking to someone else at the house.

"Just remember to use the landline for now," she warned, pointing to the phone on his desk. "Algrin hasn't cleared her to have your personal number yet, and it doesn't have the same security blocks."

Algrin hadn't cleared Seorsa to have his personal number either—probably best not to mention that. "I'll do it the right way this time, I promise."

"You know where to find me if you need any help." With a smile and a nod, Colwenna withdrew, pulling the door over behind her.

Down in the lobby, Solwen watched as the ushers sprang into action, grabbing the hefty iron rings to open the massive doors to the Hall. Slowly but surely, the Lords of Rohan emerged, most heading towards the annexe building where all of their offices were located, some heading out the main exit, some dipping into the washrooms, some turning towards the bar.

No prizes for guessing which option her dad was likely to choose…

She froze as the Earl of Camelor appeared. Just her rotten fucking luck, that he sat on the side of the Hall closer to the main door. He saw her, but instead of blanking her and turning away, he smirked and came striding towards her.

Bema save her. She didn't need this. Not today. Not _any_ day.

"Lady Solwen," he said as he approached. "How lovely to see you. How are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you." She didn't return either his salutation or his enquiry—it wasn't remotely lovely to see him, and she didn't give a goddamn flying fuck how he was. He could be burning to death in front of her, and all she would do was light a cigarette with the flames.

"I assume you came to hear the Colafell petition?" he said.

"I did, yes."

He showed her an unctuous smile. "And tell me, what did you think of the Countess's presentation?"

"It was interesting."

"Interesting? Really?" His lips curled in a slight sneer. "All that infamous Hamelmark insight, and that's all you have to say?"

"It's all I have to say to you, My Lord," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. "You'll forgive me if I don't feel the need to share my political opinions with you."

He waved her answer away. "Not to worry, there's no real need. I imagine they're mostly the same as your father's. You Hamelmarks are like those stupid pop songs my daughter likes. Once you've heard one of them, you've heard them all."

"But people _do_ like them."

"Yes, well." He smoothed down his tie and buttoned his jacket. "Not something I've ever concerned myself with. Being liked, I mean."

"That's probably a good thing, My Lord." She showed him an unctuous smile of her own. "If you were worried about being liked, your life would be _awfully_ disappointing right now."

"Such a wit."

"Twice that of you, My Lord."

He looked her up and down, in a way that made her glad she was covered from neck to toe. "I remember you being thinner," he said with a mock frown.

"And I remember you having more hair." She put her hands behind her back to hide the fact she was making fists with them. "What's your point?"

Scowling, he took a step in. It took every ounce of control she had not to take a matching step back. "Lady Solwen, just so you know, the King might have forgiven you for what you did ten years ago, but I certainly haven't. And neither has my brother."

The brother who'd cornered her in The Golden Hall and quietly expressed his desire to assault her. Only a Camelor could look at that and think she was the one who'd given offence. Besides, Thelden had bigger problems to worry about. "Lord Camelor, your brother has just been indicted on four charges of securities fraud. He's facing eight to twelve years in prison. I don't think it's my forgiveness he needs."

Across the lobby, her dad emerged from the Hall. He smiled and waved, but his smile vanished as he saw who she was with. Glowering, he strode towards her, no doubt planning to 'rescue' her from the enemy's hands. "Lord Camelor," he said as he arrived. "Was there something I could help you with?"

The Earl shook his head. "Not today, Lord Hamelmark, no. I was just having a word with your daughter." He smiled. "Catching up on old times."

"And have you had it?" her dad said. "The word, I mean?"

"I've said all I wanted to say to her, yes."

"Then, you'll excuse us, please." Her dad placed his hand on her shoulder to turn her and steer her away.

"Hamelmark," the Earl of Camelor called out.

"What?"

"I'm curious. Are you going to be involved in the rebuttal to the petition?"

She felt her dad's hand clench into a fist; obviously a hereditary trait. "You remember the answer I gave you the last time you asked me a question?" he said. "On the day the King opened the Hall?"

"I do, yes."

"Use that same answer again."

Camelor smiled. "I look forward to seeing what line of reasoning you'll take. Assuming you know how to reason, of course." His gaze flicked up and down Solwen again. "With you Hamelmarks, one can never be sure." He nodded curtly and strode away.

"Fucking _cunt_ ," her dad muttered, glaring after the Earl's retreating figure.

She pulled him towards the bar, where Jonrick Amerwen was waiting. "It's fine. Don't worry about him. Let's go have a nice drink." With a strong sedative in it. And not just for him—the way her heart was racing, she could use something calming herself.

"What did he want to talk about?"

She forced a quick shrug. "The usual. The weather, movies, holiday plans."

"Solly…"

She clamped down on her irritation. "Nothing you need to worry about. I'm a big girl now, dad. I can manage men like Camelor just fine." If necessary, the same way she'd managed his brother.

"Aye, that's what bloody worries me."

Jonrick came forward to join them. "Everything okay?" he said. "You both look a wee bit tense."

"Everything's fine," Solwen said. "Lord Camelor just wanted to chat."

Jonrick grimaced. "Sure that was fun."

"To be honest, not really, no. If you gave me a choice, I think I'd rather someone just set me on fire." She turned at the sound of confident heels, half-dreading who it would be, relieved to see the Countess of Darkfald walking to join them. If Camelor was the member of the Hall she liked least, Darkfald was the one she liked most. "Lady Darkfald," she said, giving a slight but respectful bow. Not something she always did for a Lord—it depended on who the Lord was—but for someone as capable as Her Ladyship, absolutely, yes.

"Solwen," Erella said, smiling as she moved in for the usual hugs and cheek kisses. "Bema, I can't think when I last saw you. How _are_ you?"

"I'm very well, thank you. And it's been a while, yes. Yule three years ago, I think? But don't quote me on that."

"You're looking well," Erella said, scanning her up and down.

Solwen snorted. "Not according to the Earl of Camelor, I'm not."

That got her dad's attention. "The fuck did that arsehole say?" he asked, making Erella sigh.

"He told me I'd put on weight." Or words to that effect. Which, if she was being honest, she had, but probably only a kilo or two—nothing worth calling in the Army about.

"He's a real charmer, isn't he?" Erella said in a tone that made Solwen wonder what Camelor 'compliments' she'd received.

"It's all good. I got my own back, pointed out he was losing his hair."

Laughing, Jonrick slapped her dad on the back. "Oh, Dunc, she's your bloody daughter, all right."

"I understand where you're coming from, but that might not have been the best thing to say," Erella advised. "You don't want to poke Lord Camelor _too_ much. Unlike your father, his bite's even worse than his bark."

So was her dad's, when he really got going. "I only poked him a little. And he fucking started it. If he doesn't like it when I tell him he's bald, he shouldn't tell me I'm fat."

"You're not fat," her dad said.

"I know that. And so does he. He was just being an arse." In her pocket, her phone started to buzz. She leaned over to pull it out, ready to turn the call down. She froze as she saw the text on the screen—UNKNOWN, the caller ID read. There was only one person the caller could be.

"Problem?" her dad said.

She forced herself to sound nonchalant. "No problem, no. But I need to take this." She waved to the bar. "Go grab a table, I'll join you in a few minutes." Before her dad could answer, she turned and jogged towards the main door.

Erella watched Solwen hurry away.

"A round of drinks says it's that bloody boyfriend of hers," Duncan muttered.

The one Solwen wouldn't tell him a damn thing about. Quite rightly, in Erella's opinion. She liked Duncan, had _very_ fond memories of their one night together, but the man needed to learn to butt the hell out. But from the look she'd seen on Solwen's face when she'd opened her phone, she didn't think Duncan was wrong. It hadn't been the kind of look one assumed when one realized one's accountant was calling.

"I'm sure, whoever it is, he's a perfectly pleasant young man," she said.

"I think he works at the Palace," Duncan declared, making both her and Jonrick turn to him in shock.

Jonrick said, "Why the _hell_ would you ever think that?"

Duncan waved them off. "Various things. I won't bore you with all the details." He showed Erella a rascalish smile. "You know people up at the Palace, right?"

"Oh, no," Erella said, holding up a warning finger. "Don't even _think_ about asking me to help." She _did_ know people up at the Palace—quite a few, in fact, but there was no way in hell she was getting involved in something like this. "If Solly's not telling you something, it's because she doesn't want you to know. And if she doesn't want you to know, you should mind your own business and butt the hell out."

Duncan huffed. "Fine. Keep your bloody secrets, then." He pulled on Jonrick's sleeve. "Let's go get a beer."

Erella followed them into the bar, mentally running through all the single men she knew at the Palace. Who, if any of them, might be Solwen's type? And equally, whose type might Solwen be? She was smart, and pretty, and her father was rich, but her tongue could sometimes be a little too sharp, and she didn't have a deferential bone in her body. And her fashion sense ran to what could best be described as smart biker chic.

She could think of one man in the Palace who might find that last part attractive.

But Solwen Hamelmark, dating the _King_ , of all people? No. That was just utterly silly…

She didn't answer until the sixth ring.

"Hello, this is Solwen," a familiar voice said. There were other, garbled noises behind her—she must be near a crowd of people, or somewhere outside.

"Lady Solwen, hello, it's the King." Would they ever reach the point of not having to use their titles and styles? Maybe after Sunday, he could just call her 'Solwen' instead. "How are you today?"

"Your Majesty, hello, I'm very well, thank you. How are you? How's the arm?" she added.

"I'm good. Arm's still a bit sore, but getting better. The doctor came to see me this morning, he told me it's healing up fine." And, even more importantly, had shown him how to do up a belt with one hand. That alone had made the medical bill worth paying…

"I'm glad to hear it. You'll be back to riding in no time at all."

Riding, yes. Racing, no. But he would tell her about that later. "Did you get home okay on Tuesday night?"

"I certainly did. Colwenna and Yelisan took good care of me."

Yelisan would be the driver. "Good to know." He checked the clock, realized he only had a few minutes. Time to man up and take the plunge. "I, um, I was wondering, if you don't have a naming party to go to this week, if you'd like to have breakfast with me on Sunday?"

"No naming parties this week, no. And I'd love to. What time were you thinking?"

"Is nine o'clock too early? I have an appointment at noon, I'd like us to have at least a couple of hours together." To eat, to talk, and if she was in the right mood, to maybe think about other things as well…

"Nine o'clock's fine. Not too early at all."

"Great. I'll have Colwenna send a car for you, same arrangement as last time, if that's okay?"

"It certainly is." She let out a light sigh. "But, um, could I ask a silly question? One I would usually ask Colwenna?"

"Of course."

"Would you happen to have any advice about what the dress code should be?"

"The dress code?" he repeated.

"It's just, I'm not very good at the whole 'what to wear to what event' thing. I don't know what's acceptable when you have brunch with the King."

What a strange but somehow adorable moment. A woman, asking him for fashion advice. "Whatever you would wear to have brunch with someone else, I suppose. Something comfortable. It's just breakfast, not a black tie event."

"I can do that."

"Good," he said, trying to imagine what her 'something comfortable' would look like. Not pajama bottoms, he hoped. "I'll see you at nine o'clock on Sunday, then."

"You certainly will."

Something comfortable, he'd said.

Jeans and boots were comfortable. But a little _too_ comfortable, maybe? She would ask Nediriel later. Quietly, without naming names. At least Nediriel knew not to pry.

And speaking of people prying, she needed to get to that USB stick, make a second copy.

But what was the protocol for giving a drive full of confidential files to the King? Was it something one did before or after the breakfast pastries went out?

She would figure that out on Sunday morning. Right now, it was time to just have a drink.

And keep her father's next round of questions at bay...


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan catches up with his dad, and hears some information that leads him to believe he knows who Solwen's boyfriend is.
> 
> Godhild continues to scheme.
> 
> Warning for one use of the c-word.

**Friday June 12, 2020**

Fastmer was coming out of his office.

"Captain," Godhild shouted out, jogging down the hallway to meet him. "Can I have a moment, please?"

He checked his watch. "I'm due upstairs in seven minutes." And they both knew what 'upstairs' meant. "You've got ninety seconds. If you need more than that, you'll have to catch me tomorrow instead."

Time to get straight to the point. "It's about the Midsummer break, sir."

"You can't have it off," Fastmer said, his face settling into a scowl. "Not now. Too many others have booked it out already."

She shook her head, raising a hand to placate him. "Not that, sir, no."

"Then what?"

"Sir, I heard a rumour His Majesty's planning to spend the break in the March."

"And what if he is?"

Not a confirmation, but not a denial either. "If he is, I'd like to be assigned to his detail, instead of going to Aldburg with Her Royal Highness." Or even worse, staying here to keep an eye on the empty residence level instead.

"Why?" he said, as blunt as a river-smoothed rock.

Shit. She hadn't thought about a good cover story. Fortunately, she didn't have to think very far. "Protecting the King is our team's most prestigious duty assignment, sir. And I'd like to be a part of that as much as I can." Sometimes she loved how good her lies were.

Not good enough for Fastmer, it seemed. "So would everyone else in the team, Lieutenant. But you know how this works. Duty assignments aren't about what anyone wants. They're about experience and training. You start at the bottom and you work your way up. The more time you spend in the job, the further up the food chain you go." He took out his keys to lock up his door. "I also need to consider how well everyone fits. Whoever I take to the March, they're going to see the King at much closer quarters than usual, so they need to be people he's totally comfortable with."

And she hadn't spent much time with the King, except for a few shifts at his door. "Does that mean you won't consider me for the assignment?"

He let out a frustrated sigh. "It means you'll find out on Monday, when I send out the email to the whole group explaining who's going where with who." He checked his watch again. "I need to go. If there's anything else, it'll have to wait."

"Of course, sir." She forced a smile. "Thank you for your time."

Nodding curtly, he strode away.

That hadn't gone as well as she'd hoped. But she'd done what she could; it was out of her hands. And it sounded as if he'd already set the assignments, so it might have been out of her hands for days.

She checked her own watch—her own shift didn't start for twenty-five minutes—just enough time to hit the vending machine for a snack.

She turned to walk back the way she'd come, heading for the spiral stairs that would take her down to the canteen level. She rounded a corner, and ran straight into one of the new female drivers. "Pardon me," Godhild said, smiling politely as she stepped to the side, trying to remember the young woman's name. "Should've been looking where I was going."

"No problem," the young woman said, showing a rueful smile of her own. She waved the phone she'd been reading. "Was my fault as well. Should've had my eyes up." She nodded and hurried away.

Yelisan. That was her name. And she worked in the driving team. As in, someone who drove people in and out of the Palace. Including the King's personal guests. Why the fuck hadn't she thought about this before? If someone had come to visit the King on Tuesday, who better to ask than the driver who'd brought the guest in? "It's Yelisan, isn't it?" Godhild called out, walking a few steps back to meet the young woman. "You're with the driving pool, right?"

Yelisan stopped and turned. "That's me, yes. And you're Godhild, aren't you? You're with the King's Guard."

"I am, yes." Grinning, Godhild waved to the badge on her tunic. "What gave it away?"

"Must be an interesting job you have."

"Not as interesting as you'd think. I mostly stand outside whatever room the King's in, or watch a bunch of monitors down in the security room." She waved at Yelisan. "Yours must be interesting as well. And at least you get to meet people."

Yelisan turned her hand from side to side. "Some days, yes. Although, the meeting part's mostly just the passenger telling me where to go."

"You ever drive the King or The Princess Royal?"

"Bema, no," Yelisan scoffed. "I've only been with the team for six months. They don't let me anywhere near the really important people."

Just the opening she needed. "Who do they let you near, then?"

"The senior members of the Household, mostly. The Comptroller, the Lord Chamberlain, the Steward, the various Senior and Principal Secretaries. And sometimes, their guests as well."

Guests. Yes. That was what she wanted to know. "I know this is going to sound like a strange question, but by any chance, were you on duty on Tuesday night?"

Smiling, Yelisan nodded. "I was, yes."

"You drive anyone that night?"

"Just a guest for Colwenna."

Colwenna. The head of the King's personal staff, and the woman who kept his life in order for him. Who else but her would arrange a late-night date on the terrace for him? "A female guest, by any chance?"

"That's right," Yelisan said. Frowning, she took a small step away; Godhild could almost hear the gates coming down. "Why are you asking?"

"No reason," Godhild said. She flashed a disarming smile. "Just curious, is all."

"I, uh, I should really get back," Yelisan said, gesturing down the hall. "Was nice to meet you again. You have a good day."

"You too."

As Yelisan hurried away, Godhild tried not to scream. She'd come so close, only to be thwarted again.

Why wouldn't anyone in this Palace just tell her the one thing—the one tiny, insignificant thing—she really needed to know?

He found his dad on the patio, one arm perched on the boundary railing, watching the people coming and going in Caradhras Square, quietly nursing what was left of a pint.

Haradoc looked up as Duncan approached. "How did your meeting go?" he said. "You manage to do what Harbrand sent you to do?"

"I think so, yes." Duncan pulled out a chair, glad his dad had chosen one of the tables out at the side, with nobody close enough to eavesdrop on them. "The people from IsenTech weren't completely convinced, they asked for a couple of days to go over the numbers before they respond."

"They probably don't believe Harbrand's actually going to cough up the cash. It's not the first time the government's announced an economic plan like this for the March. But somehow, the lying bastards down in Edoras have never quite managed to make good on their promise. They've always ended up finding something else to spend the money on instead."

"I can't see any reason why Harbrand would refuse to deliver. I'm sure she'll keep her word." He hoped so—he'd staked his political reputation on it. Or, what he had of a political reputation, at least.

A young woman dressed as a server appeared; enthusiastic, bouncy and blonde. "Hi, there," she said to Duncan. "Can I bring you something to drink?"

"You certainly can." He turned to scan the menu board by the door. "You have Golden Mane on draft?"

"We do, yes. Would you like a sleeve, or a pint?"

"I'll take a pint, please."

Haradoc tutted. "Careful, now. You shouldn't be drinking during work hours."

"It's three-thirty on a Friday. You think everyone down in Edoras won't already be in the bar?" Keveleok would have been in it since noon, slowly drinking her way through the local supply of Dunharrow. The woman could put it away like nobody's business. Bema only knew what condition her liver was in.

Haradoc waggled his near-empty glass. "And I'll take another pint of Black, please, pet."

"No problem. Let me go grab those for you, I'll be right back."

"How long are you staying in town?" Haradoc asked.

"Just overnight. I'll head back down the road tomorrow. Would like to stay a couple of days, look over the books with Jemmy, but there's too much stuff happening in the Hall this week. There's a big finance bill on Monday, Erella will skin me alive if I even think about skipping the vote."

"Erella?"

"The Countess of Darkfald."

"Of course, yes." Haradoc paused to finish his pint. "I saw the coverage of the petition speech, by the way. Last night, on the ten o'clock news."

"What did you think?"

"I think the Countess of Keveleok probably doesn't like you very much right now."

"Aye well. Nothing new there."

"Did you really research how dangerous riding a motorbike was when Solly told you she wanted to learn?"

Duncan stood up to take his off his jacket and hang it around his chair. "Course I didn't. I never had any problem with her wanting to ride."

"Duncan Eoin Hamelmark. Are you telling me you _lied_?"

Grinning, he leaned over the table to murmur, "Like a finely woven Harad rug."

Haradoc shook his head. "Oh, son," he sighed. "If your poor mother was still alive, I'm not sure if she'd want to whip you, or hug you."

"Not like anyone in the Hall's actually going to check the facts." He started to pull out his cigarettes until he noticed the No Smoking sign. "And I'm pretty sure she'd want to hug me. She never had much respect for most of the Lords. In my shoes, she would have told the same lie." Or, an even bigger one…

"It's going to be an interesting rebuttal. You have any intention of getting involved?"

"Erella asked me to."

"And?"

"And I told her I wasn't sure I could help." Duncan shrugged. "It's a legal issue, and I have absolutely no legal knowledge." Other than the basics he'd picked up from his years in the Hall. Which wasn't much, in the grand scheme of things. And nowhere near enough to take on something as important as the Colafell claim.

"What did the Countess say to that?"

"She told me she didn't need my expertise, that she needed my creativity. Whatever the hell 'creativity' means."

"I think it means your talent for saying things everyone knows should be said, but that they're all either too sensible or too frightened to say."

"My talent for stirring the shit, you mean?"

"You get that from your mother. She could stir shit like nobody's business. And your grandfather as well."

"I come from a long and illustrious line of shit-stirrers, it seems." On both sides—the Giantsbanes weren't quite as good at it as the Hamelmarks, but they could still stir up a healthy amount of the fecal matter when they put their minds to it.

The bouncy server returned with their drinks. "A pint of Golden Mane," she said, setting Duncan's glass down. Haradoc's refill followed. "And a pint of Black." As she grabbed Haradoc's empty glass, she showed them another grin. "Can I get you anything else?"

"That's all for now, pet, thanks," Haradoc said, reaching for his new pint.

"No problem. If you need anything, just give me a wave."

Once the server was gone, Duncan said, "Just so you know, I don't think you're supposed to call the servers 'pet'. Pretty sure it's considered bad form these days."

Haradoc chuckled. "Aye. No doubt." He raised his glass. "Cheers," he said.

"Cheers," Duncan said, charging his father's glass to his own.

"So, you're not going to help?" Haradoc asked once he'd taken a sip. "With the rebuttal to the petition, I mean?"

"I haven't decided yet." His initial instinct had been a hard 'no', but Erella's request was weighing on him. Just knowing she wanted him to play a part was enough to make him think that maybe he should. Sometimes, having a conscience was a terrible thing.

"You said you didn't know how."

"I don't." Should he tell his dad about the USB stick? It was in his briefcase, back at the house—he was going to look at the files later. "But I might be able to figure something out."

"Didn't think you were that fond of the King."

"It's not about being fond of the King. It's about not trying to fix things that don't need to be fixed. And the monarchy doesn't need to be fixed. The whole thing is running just fine."

"You don't think His Majesty's being slightly irresponsible, then?"

"Not really, no. I mean, would it be nice if he stopped trying to put his finger in every hot pie in town, got married and had a few kids? Of course. Should he stop accumulating speeding tickets and giving his protective detail the slip? Absolutely. But that doesn't mean he needs to be fired. It just means he needs to be given a slight dressing down." He took a sip of his beer, enjoying how cold and thirst-quenching it was. "And I doubt Thenwis Colafell would be any better, once she had a few years as an adult under her belt."

"Better the balrog you know, and all that."

"Exactly. The King's doing a perfectly decent job. And Keveleok doesn't really want to depose him. She's just annoyed because he won't marry any of her daughters."

"I tell you what, though. Princess Thengwen didn't look well."

Duncan sighed. "She didn't, no. I can only imagine how much her appearance must have taken out of her."

"I remember all the fuss. Back when she wanted to get married, I mean." Haradoc shook his head. "Terrible, what they put her through. All because she fell in love with a non-Landed man."

"You should just be glad my grandpa never did the same thing to mum."

Haradoc snorted. "I think if he'd tried, your mum would have pushed your grandpa over a cliff." He sipped on his pint. "Bema knows Kalaster had a lot of flaws, but class snobbery was never one of them. He was never anything other than welcoming to me."

"He was probably scared you'd call up a gathering of the Giantsbanes if he tried to get in your way."

"Been an awful long time since any of us called up the clan."

"For fighting, maybe," Duncan said. "You call them up all the bloody time to have them over for drinks." Sometimes, half of Isendale, it seemed. Not that he minded, but a garden full of Giantsbanes could be a little bit hard on one's nerves. Not to mention one's liquor supplies.

"And speaking of having the family over, I assume you're all coming home for the Midsummer break?"

It was lovely, really, how his dad always thought of the holding as home. Never ever the house in Edoras. "We certainly are. Diri, Asta and I will drive up on the first. We should be here by late afternoon. Erland has to work until the end of the week, so he'll come up on the fourth or the fifth."

"What about Solly?"

"She should be coming as well. Haven't spoken to her about it yet, so not sure when she'll ride up." Assuming she was bringing the bike, but Duncan couldn't imagine she wouldn't. She would need some way of getting around, and she didn't have her own car, so it wouldn't make any sense to leave the 'fax in Edoras.

"She promised me she was coming."

And promises to Haradoc should never be broken. "I know she did. But there's a bit of a complication now."

"What's that?"

"She's got a boyfriend."

"Really?"

Sighing, Duncan nodded.

"And how long has that been going on?" Haradoc asked.

"A few weeks at least. Not really sure. She's been pretty tight-lipped about it."

Haradoc grinned. "And by tight-lipped, you mean she's not telling you a bloody thing."

"She won't even tell me what his first name is. Or what he does for a living."

"Aye, that's because she knows you can take a first name and an occupation and come up with a shortlist of three people by the end of the day."

"Not _my_ fault I'm so good at figuring things out."

"But it _is_ your fault you're a nosy, interfering bastard."

"I'm not being nosy. I'm just worried about her." For reasons his father should understand—he was the only other person alive who'd gone through the full horror of what had happened to Solly's mother with him. "I just want to know she's safe. That nothing's going to happen to her." He took a long pull of his pint, trying to calm the anxiety discussing this issue always brought on.

Haradoc sighed. "Duncan, we've talked about this before," he said, in his calmest, softest, most fatherly tone. "More times than I care to remember."

"I know we have. It's just… it's not a rational thing I'm dealing with, okay? I know what I'm doing is wrong, and I told her that, and I promised her I wouldn't pry, but then I think about how her mum died and—"

"Stop," Haradoc ordered, raising a hand. "What happened to Nemeshet was terrible, but it's _not_ going to happen again."

"You don't know that. Not for sure."

"Course I bloody don't. But you can't live your life based on what you do or don't know for sure. That's a quick way to drive yourself mad."

"It wouldn't be so bad if she would just tell me who he was."

"And why the fuck would that help?" Haradoc said. "The man who killed Nemeshet, he wasn't anyone she knew. She wasn't _dating_ him, for Bema's sake. He wasn't a colleague from work. He was just some random stranger, looking for someone to rob, and she just happened to be the first easy target he saw."

Duncan stared into his pint. "It's just, I promised Solly's grandfather, her _other_ grandfather, that nothing would ever happen to her."

"I know you did. And I know why you made the promise. But you can't keep Solly safe by trying to control her, or by wrapping her in cotton wool. That's not how being a father works." Haradoc took a sip of his beer. "Not like she'll even let you do it. The lassie's not stupid, you know. The King's Ban wasn't the only reason she moved abroad for eight years. You were smothering her, even back then. You want to be a good father to her, you need to back the fuck off and leave her alone. Before you drive her away all over again."

"I know I do. And I was getting better at it. Until…"

"Until what?"

"Until yesterday, when I came out of the Hall after the hearing for the petition. Solly had come to listen in. She was waiting for me in the lobby. _Camelor_ was talking to her." He could still taste the anger he'd felt, feel the way the red mist had come down, seeing that venomous prick of a man anywhere near his wee baby girl.

"What were they talking about?"

"I don't know. She wouldn't tell me. Probably nothing good."

"Someone needs to kill the cunt," Haradoc muttered. "Him and his arsehole of a brother. The pair of them. Take them somewhere quiet and put a bullet in the back of their heads. And maybe even the eldest son as well, just in case the problem's genetic."

Duncan shook his head. "No need for that. I've met the eldest son a few times, he's actually a really nice lad. Takes after his mother, nothing like his father at all. He's training to be a mental health counsellor, I think. Or a psychologist. Something like that."

"I suppose when you come from a family like that, it might be useful to understand what makes people tick."

"Aye, because we're all paragons of emotional and mental stability, aren't we?"

"Not as bad as the bloody Camelors."

"You forgetting the part where grandpa got so mad at the King, he rode his horse into the Golden Hall and let it piss all over the throne?"

"Thengel was being a prick. He fucking deserved it."

"Wasn't exactly reasonable, rational behaviour, though, was it?"

"I suppose not, no,"

Not that his own behaviour in the Hall had always been both of those things. But best not to dwell on that too much. "And speaking of Kings and Camelors, have you heard the latest rumours about what pot of ink the King's dipping his pen in now?" he said, steering onto a less troubling subject.

"Not the Earl's older daughter, I hope."

Duncan shook his head. "The Countess. Seorsa. The one Rogen's trying to divorce."

"Really?" Haradoc said, a grin spreading over his face.

Duncan returned the grin. "I can't decide if that's brave, or just suicidal."

"She _is_ a rather attractive woman."

"Extremely."

Haradoc sighed. "Makes me wish I was even sixty again."

"Okay, the last thing I need right now on top of everything else I'm dealing with is for you to turn into a dirty old man."

"Calm your jets. I'm not turning into a dirty old anything."

"I don't have to worry about you coming home with a twenty-five-year-old girlfriend, then?" Or, even worse, a twenty-five-year-old wife. He'd wanted a sibling when he was younger, but he certainly didn't want one now. Three kids was trouble enough.

"Duncan, the only woman I'm interested in these days is the nice young lady in the pharmacy in Seigoth who fills the prescription for my arthritis pills."

"Knees giving you bother again?"

"Not too much right now." Haradoc gestured at the sky. "But it's summer. Nice and dry and warm. Winter's always the worst."

"You need to ease up on the physical stuff. Have Jemmy hire some people to do the timber rounds for you."

"Easier said than done. Not the kind of job you can learn in a single season. Takes years to learn how to walk the rounds well, how to survey the trees, how to recognize which ones should be left to grow, and which ones should be marked to come down."

Not for the first time, Duncan felt a sharp pang of guilt. It should really be him doing the rounds—he _was_ the earl, after all—but his work in the Hall had to come first. He could hire someone to manage the trees, but he couldn't hire someone to hold his seat for him. "The sooner you start, the sooner you'll have someone trained."

"It's about more than the training. We just can't find the right people. Jemmy's struggling to put together a good harvesting crew for this year. We pay really well, always have, always will, but it's hard work, physically demanding, and you spend most of your time on your feet outside." Haradoc shrugged. "None of the kids coming out of school want to do it. They're all swanning off to Edoras to be software developers or currency traders instead."

"I'm not sure your grandchildren would thank you for making that particular point."

"Aye, well, maybe those grandchildren need to come home for more than just the Midsummer break. Maybe they need to walk the rounds with me, see how we manage the land, get a firsthand view of where the family money comes from. Especially Erland. Whether he marries and has kids or not, the holding's still going to be his to manage one day. He needs to learn how it works."

"He will," Duncan promised. "We've talked about this a lot. He knows what his obligations are, and he's not trying to shirk them. He just wants a few years to be his own person first. I figured since he never asked to be my eldest son, I should at least give him that. And the company he works for focuses on portfolio strategies related to land and resource management. It's all going to be useful time in the end."

"And what about Astalor? He figured out what he wants to do yet?"

Astalor, Bema. If the lad figured _anything_ out by the time he was thirty, Duncan would be utterly thrilled. "The only thing he's worrying about right now is finishing his course," Duncan said. "He failed a couple of classes this year, he'll have to go back for another term after summer. Once he's through that, Diri and I will make sure he has a plan, don't worry."

"You're too easy on him. Both of you are."

Yes, they probably were. Especially Diri. But not in a way that really did any harm. "He's only twenty-two. Plenty of time to sort himself out."

"You forgetting where I was when I was that age?"

"You were down in Lebennin, fighting in The Third Southern War."

"And when you were his age, you were married with a wee baby son. And by the time you were Erland's age, you'd been married three times, had a ten-year-old, a six-year-old and another wee baby son."

"It's different now, dad. Kids these days, they want a career and a life before they get married. And they don't want to rush it. They want to take the time to do it right." He thought of what Solly had said, after he'd joked about finding Elisend a man. "They want to marry for love, not for money, or because it's a good social match, or any of that old-fashioned stuff." He shrugged. "Times are changing, we need to be ready to change with them."

"You're not worried that's why Solly's keeping things from you, then? Because she's dating someone she thinks you might not approve of?"

"I doubt it." Unless she was dating either a criminal, or Camelor's son, both of which seemed highly unlikely. "I've always made it extremely clear I don't care about that. None of my wives have been Landed." He waved at his dad. " _You're_ not Landed. Would be a bit hypocritical of me to look down on her dating a non-Landed man."

Haradoc's grin was entirely too smug for Duncan's liking. "She's only keeping things from you because you're a nosy bastard, then."

"Apparently, yes."

"And you don't know anything about him at _all_?"

Duncan hesitated, then said, "I have a sneaking suspicion he works at the Palace."

"The Palace? The one where the King lives?"

"I wasn't aware we had another."

Haradoc cuffed him on the side of the head. "Don't be such a bloody smartarse."

"Can't help it. It's what you and mum raised me to be." He grinned at the glare his father shot him. "But yes, the Meduseld Palace."

"What makes you think that's where he works?"

"Nothing definitive. Just a hunch, based on a few things I've noticed about phone calls and cars."

"Cars?"

"Solly saw him on Tuesday, he picked her up at the top of the drive. I didn't see him, but the car he was in was a standard government model."

"You think he works in the Royal Household, then?"

Duncan nodded as he sipped on his pint. "One of the secretaries. Or maybe a lawyer. Or one of the money people. No idea. Something like that."

"He could be a driver, and he just borrowed a car."

"I actually considered that."

"Would it bother you if he was?"

"Not at all. At least it's an honest way to earn a living." Unlike what he and his fellow Earls did…

"Haradoc?" a voice called out.

They looked round at the same time to discover the source of the voice was an attractive, fair-haired, middle-aged woman—a woman Duncan was sure he'd met, but couldn't for the life of him remember when.

Smiling warmly, the woman bustled over to where they were sitting. "I _thought_ it was you," she said to his dad.

"Calantha, Bema," Haradoc said, smiling himself as he pushed out of his chair. Leaning over the railing, he pulled the woman into a hug, which she eagerly returned, slapping him several times on the back. "So good to see you," Haradoc said when he pulled away. "How're you keeping these days? How's Theo?"

"We're both well. Theo retired three months ago, so he's home all the time, and if I'm being honest, driving me a little bit nuts. And you?"

"My knees hurt a bit when it's damp, but apart from that, I can't complain." Haradoc gestured to the table. "You remember my son, Duncan?"

Calantha smiled and nodded his way. "I certainly do. Very nice to see you again, My Lord."

"Och, away with that crap. He's just Duncan to you." Haradoc's next words were to Duncan. "You remember Calantha, don't you? Brendal's mum?"

Brendal's mother, of course. Duncan went to the railing to hold out his hand. "I do now, yes." He flashed a rueful grin. "Sorry. My memory failed me for a few moments there."

"No apology necessary," Calantha said, shaking his hand. "It's been a few years, and you probably meet an awful lot of people."

"That's putting it mildly."

"So, how's the family?" she said, to Haradoc as much as to him.

Duncan answered. "They're all well. Down in Edoras right now, but they're coming to Isendale for Midsummer."

"I heard Lady Solwen's back in Rohan again."

From Brendal, he guessed. "She is, yes. She moved home at the end of March."

"Must be nice to have them all near."

"It certainly is. First Midsummer in a very long time where we'll have the whole family together."

"And what about your lot?" Haradoc said. "How's everyone keeping?"

"They're all doing fine. Merowen's still over in Heath Fells, still a manager at the chemical plant. The kids are getting bigger and sassier by the day."

"And what about Brendal? How's he keeping?"

Calantha snorted. "Is uncommunicative an acceptable answer?"

"He's a man, Calantha," said Duncan, defending the flaws of his sex. "They tend not to be terribly good at that."

"And it's not even a fair criticism to make," she said. "He actually called us last night." She looked around, then leaned in to whisper. "He's coming home for the Midsummer break."

Which… didn't seem like something that needed to be whispered, in Duncan's opinion? "Is that something we're not supposed to know?" he said, keeping his own voice down, just in case.

"Not really, no." She gave them a knowing look. "Because of who his boss is?"

Duncan raised a brow at his dad, asking Haradoc to fill in whatever the hell it was he was missing.

"The King," Calantha prompted, looking between them again. "He's coming to Isendale for Midsummer. And he wants to do some riding while he's here, so Brendal's coming with him."

So much in a single statement; Duncan didn't know where to start. "Okay, sorry, are you telling me Brendal works for the King?" he said.

She frowned. "He looks after the King's motorcycles. Did Haradoc not tell you that?"

"Slipped my mind completely, lass," said Haradoc, showing an apologetic smile. "I'm sure you told me, but it must have been a few years ago."

But that wasn't where Duncan's mind was going. "Does that mean he works at the Meduseld Palace?"

"He certainly does," Calantha said, her chest and voice swelling with motherly pride. "In the automotive section. He's in charge of all of the bikes."

In the automotive section. Next to a whole garage full of plain, unmarked government cars…

"He'll have had an interesting week, then," Haradoc said. "With the King crashing and all."

"He wouldn't say much about it, security you understand, but he told me it's been a wee bit stressful." She leaned in again. "He was at the track when the crash happened. Saw the whole thing. Said he's never been so scared in his life."

"Understandable," Haradoc said. "We both saw the photos"—he waved between Duncan and him—"they were scary enough."

"And, um, is Brendal seeing anyone these days?" Duncan asked, ignoring the quizzical look his father gave him.

"He got awfully prickly when I asked him that, so I'm going to assume that means the answer is no."

Or, it was 'yes', and Brendal just didn't want to talk to his mother about it…

"I still don't understand why he and Ragnill broke up," Calantha lamented. "She was such a lovely girl. It still breaks my heart just thinking about it."

What Duncan had of a memory told him Ragnill was Brendal's wife. Or ex-wife, rather. "You'll be looking forward to seeing more of him."

"Assuming we actually get to see him, and His Majesty doesn't keep him at his beck and call."

"I'm sure he'll have plenty of personal time as well," was all Duncan could think of to say. He realized then, his manners were lacking. "Calantha, would you like to come in and join us for a drink?" he said, turning to gesture at their table, where their half-finished pints were still waiting.

Smiling, she shook her head. "You're very kind, but Theo's picking me up in a couple of minutes. Merowen and the family are coming over for dinner. I need to get home to get the chicken casserole going."

"Enjoy your night. Say 'hi' to the family for us."

"I certainly will."

"And we'll see you over Midsummer," Haradoc added. "We'll throw the usual shindig, have everyone up to the house."

Calantha leaned in again. "Will you invite the King as well?" she whispered.

"No idea," was Duncan's honest response. "We'll have to see how it all works out. His Majesty might have other plans."

"Very true." She winced as she checked her watch. "But I need to run." She pulled Haradoc in for another quick hug. "You take care, we'll see you all soon."

"See you soon, lass. You take care as well."

Only his father could call a middle-aged woman a lass. Was that better or worse than calling the bouncy server a pet?

Back at the table, they reclaimed their pints. "So, what do you make of that?" Haradoc said.

Duncan snorted. "Which bloody part?"

"Aye, there was a fair bit in what she said, wasn't there?" Haradoc sipped on his Black. "But I was mostly talking about the King's visit."

"I'm going to take a wild guess it's because of the election results. His way of helping to smooth down the ruffled feathers."

"Just a pity it's taken him so long. He's been King for eight years, can't think when he's ever stayed in the March before."

Duncan shrugged. "Better late than never, I guess."

"Wonder where he'll be staying?"

"Somewhere private and fancy." A house down in Seigoth, or over in Tionalad, depending on what kind of place he wanted.

Haradoc frowned. "And why the hell did you ask Calantha if Brendal was seeing anyone? What the hell was all that about?"

Should he share his suspicions? Would his dad agree, or think he was nuts? Only one way to find out. "Because I was trying to put two and two together."

"What two and two?"

He took a sip of his beer for courage. "You know how I told you, I thought Solly was dating someone who works at the Palace?"

"Aye?" Like an incoming tide, shock spread over Haradoc's face. "Wait a minute. Are you saying you think she's dating _Brendal_?"

"She already knew him. They both ride, and they're both from the March. If you think about it, it sort of makes sense."

"But why wouldn't she tell you if she was?"

"Maybe she's worried I'll disapprove. They _are_ related, and he _is_ quite a bit older than her."

Haradoc waved him off. "They're third cousins once removed. In Landed terms, that's barely related at all. And it's not as if she's eighteen and he's in his thirties. She's twenty-eight. Perfectly capable of figuring things out for herself."

Duncan grinned. "Maybe she's worried _you'll_ disapprove."

"Why the hell would I disapprove? I've always been very fond of Brendal. Would be perfectly happy if they were dating."

"Are you sure? You wouldn't have even a _tiny_ itch to bring your favourite shotgun out?"

"I'll admit, I might want to have a quiet word in his ear. Just to set some expectations, you understand."

"Of course."

"Are you going to ask her about it?"

Duncan shook his head. "Even if I'm right, and she is dating Brendal, I should let her tell me in her own time."

"You'll have to practice looking surprised."

"Dad, I just fooled the whole Hall of Lords. Pretty sure I can fool my daughter just fine."

Back at the house, Duncan was grabbing his briefcase from his car when one of the holding's work trucks pulled up, and Jemmy—the man who'd been more or less running the place for the last twenty years—jumped down from the cab and came striding towards him. Given what Jemmy was wearing—a safety helmet, a leather belt fully-laden with tools, heavy jeans and steel-toed boots—he must have been out on the rounds.

"Can you spare five minutes, sir?" Jemmy called out. "And maybe your father as well?"

"For you, Jemmy, we certainly can." And not just five minutes—however much time he needed. Duncan gestured for Jemmy to follow him into the house. "Dad's in the kitchen making some tea. Come join us."

They followed the sound of the whistling kettle, finding Haradoc in the kitchen, just as Duncan had said. "You'll need another mug," he said to his dad, gesturing over his shoulder. "Jemmy wants to chat."

Jemmy raised a hand. "I'm okay for tea, thanks. I can't stay long." He grinned. "Don't want to keep Her Majesty waiting for dinner."

"She ever hears you calling her that, it'll be the last dinner you ever have," Haradoc said.

Duncan snickered. All these men, all their commanding, capable wives. His own good lady Countess being the most commanding, of course…

"So, what's this about?" Duncan asked, going to lay his briefcase on a nearby table. "Nothing alarming, I hope."

"Just wanted to let you know, I did another survey today, took a few of the lads out with me. I'm trying to finalize what trees we'll harvest this summer."

Haradoc went to the fridge to bring out the milk. "Jemmy told me last week he's marked out two of the Sorrow Bloods. Both on the upper north ridge."

"Those are the oldest trees, the most likely to be ready to harvest, so that makes sense," Duncan said. Nodding a thanks to his dad, he grabbed the milk to pour a splash in his tea. "But I'm guessing if you're talking to us, it means you found something else."

"I certainly did," Jemmy said. "Over in the east valley, near the start of the Golden Birch line. I found a Sorrow Blood there that needs to come down as well."

"The Sorrow Bloods in the east valley are only ninety years old." Planted by his great-grandfather, if Duncan's memory served. "We shouldn't be harvesting any of them for at least another ten years."

"I know that, sir." Jemmy heaved a troubled sigh. "But we checked the roots, and there's signs of blight setting in."

Blight. The one word no Sorrow Blood grower ever wanted to hear. If they didn't contain it, it could wipe out the whole east valley copse within a few years. "Bad?" Duncan asked.

To his relief, Jemmy shook his head. "Still in the early stages, sir. And only in the one tree. We checked all the surrounding trees, couldn't find any sign that it's spread."

"Yet," Haradoc added.

Time was of the essence; there was only one decision to make. "Bring it down as soon as you can. Get it out while the blight's contained, before it takes out any of the neighbouring trees." And not just the Sorrow Bloods—under the right weather conditions, it could spread to the Golden Birches as well.

"I figured that's what your answer would be," Jemmy said. "I made some phone calls today, the team's all ready to go. You just need to give us the word."

"Consider it given," Duncan said.

"Right you are, sir. We'll get out there with the equipment tomorrow, have her down by the end of the day. Grind out the stump, burn out the blight, make sure nothing spreads any further."

Strange, how the boys always thought of the trees in feminine terms. Like Solly and her bike, or Erland and that paddle boat he'd kept on the lake as a kid…

"It's a crying shame we have to take her down before she's fully matured," Haradoc added, reinforcing his point, "but it is what it is. Even with a ninety, we'll still get a bloody good price for the timber."

'Bloody good' was putting it mildly. With Sorrow Bloods being as rare as they were, even a ninety would earn them enough to cover the cost of running both the holding and the Edoras house until the end of next year. And that was only one tree. Jemmy had said he wanted to harvest two fully mature trees as well. Add that to what they would earn from harvesting the more common stock—the usual assortment of Golden Birch and Singing Alder—and the holding would end the year very firmly in the black.

He might spring for that new hardtop convertible Nediriel had had her eye on. The crap she put up with, she deserved something nice…

"Would you like me to bring down the others tomorrow as well?" Jemmy asked. "The two that are fully mature? Would save us a wee bit of money to do them all on the same weekend."

Duncan was about to say 'yes', when he remembered what his father had said in the pub. He shook his head. "Let's wait with those two, bring them down when everyone's here for Midsummer." He aimed a smile at his dad. "I'd like my kids to be out on the site to help with the work." Although, with Astalor, it would only be watching—the last time they'd given the lad an axe, he'd almost lopped off his foot. "So they understand what you and your team do, and what kind of work is involved." He sipped his tea. "So they can see where the holding income comes from."

Jemmy sighed in relief. "If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I think that's a fantastic idea. A few of us, we've been wondering what the succession plan was." He dipped his head at Haradoc. "Who's going to take over the day-to-day running of the holding when Haradoc's not able to do it."

"Not like I'm planning on dying anytime soon," Haradoc protested.

"We know that, sir. But you're eighty-two. In my opinion, which I'll freely admit nobody asked for, you shouldn't have to do so much of the work. We should have some of the younger ones up here instead. Not His Lordship," Jemmy hastily added. "I know his political duties keep him in Edoras for most of the year. But when the late Countess was still alive, she went to Edoras to deal with the Hall, and he stayed here to run the estate. I think it would be extremely helpful if one of His Lordship's children could step into the same role now. And I mean no disrespect to any of them," Jemmy said, raising a placating hand. "I know it's not my place to comment on family matters. I just want to be sure the holding's future's in solid hands."

"We all do, Jemmy," Duncan said. They were going to have to talk about this sooner rather than later, it seemed. Jemmy was right. It was too much for his dad to manage, especially with the way his arthritis was going. "We'll discuss it with the kids when everyone's up for Midsummer, see how it pans out from there."

"Can't ask for anything more than that, sir."

He could, as it happened. But being the man he was, he wouldn't.

Jemmy moved to the door. "I'll let you get back to your Friday night. Have a safe drive down to the city tomorrow, sir. We'll see you all in a few weeks."

A safe drive down to the city. Not a safe drive home. But Jemmy was the same as his dad—a true son of the March to his bones. "You certainly will. Keep everyone safe tomorrow. Make sure all the lads get home in one piece."

"Will do, sir." With a respectful nod, Jemmy was gone.

"You serious?" Haradoc said once they heard the front door close. "About discussing this with the kids?"

Duncan nodded. "We need to know somebody's ready to step into your shoes. _I_ could, I know all the work, but I need to be in Edoras for most of the year to sit in the Hall. I won't be an absent Lord, and I can't send Erland to sit in my place."

"But you can have him act for you up here."

"Or Astalor. Or even Solwen."

Haradoc snorted. "I wouldn't say 'even' if I were you. She did the rounds with me a few times, back when she first came home, helped me to clear the spring debris away from the saplings. The way she wields a timber axe, I swear it would make a grown man quake in his boots."

"She probably imagines she's splitting Thelden Camelor's head in two."

"In her shoes, wouldn't you?"

And speaking of the Camelors…

"What time did Gelenis say dinner was at?" Duncan said, grabbing his briefcase from the table.

"Seven."

He checked his watch; that was almost two hours from now—plenty of time to take a first pass at the files on that drive. He tapped his briefcase. "I need to look at some stuff for work, I'll catch up with you then?"

"Something important?"

"Something to do with the petition." He wouldn't mention the USB drive. He trusted his dad, but given how thoroughly illegal it was, the fewer people who knew about it, the better. "Some… information that may help me figure out if and how I should be involved in the rebuttal."

"You best get on with it, then." Haradoc grabbed his tea to head out to the garden. " Go look at your work, I'll see you at seven."

Unbelievable.

Un-fucking-believable, what these arrogant bastards were doing.

The sheer _nerve_ these emails displayed. The snobbery and entitlement oozing out of every last word. The way they talked about the Crown—as if it was theirs to own and control, to be taken from or given to people as and how they saw fit.

Not on his fucking watch, it bloody well wasn't…

At least now, Duncan knew one thing for sure—the Earl of Camelor was in this up to the flaccid thing that passed for his neck. He hadn't said so much as a word while the petition was being presented, but the contents of these emails proved he was running the show behind the scenes. But that was Camelor to a 't'. He never did anything risky himself if he could persuade somebody else to do it for him. In this case, the Countess of Keveleok, and to a lesser extent, the Earl of Romengar as well. They were the public faces of the petition. If it all went horribly wrong, it would damage them, not him.

There were two things he still didn't know—why Keveleok couldn't see what he saw, and what kind of payment Camelor wanted. The earl hated the House of Eorl (for reasons nobody in the Hall understood), so he probably wanted to bring it down, establish the House of Colafell in its place. But even then, what was really in it for him? It wouldn't be money—the Earl was one of the richest men in the country. And Thenwis would still be only a constitutional monarch. She couldn't make him Prime Minister, or shower him with titles and honours beyond what he already had. What the bloody hell was the hook?

Or maybe there was no hook, and Camelor just wanted to watch Eomer burn. That explanation worried Duncan most of all. He understood why money and power made people tick. But causing disorder just because you could? There was no negotiating with people like that.

Unfortunately, as troubling as the emails were, as much as they reeked of privilege and self-importance, there wasn't so much as a single whiff of illegality in any of them. The bastards were plotting to give Thenwis the Crown, but by entirely legitimate means. There was no point in sharing the emails with the press, or with anyone who was planning to give the rebuttal. Except for some insight into how Thenwis thought, nothing in them would give anyone a single step up.

Although, there was that one alarming email. From Keveleok to Camelor, back at the end of May, with that unusual phrase in it. But it was more about the King himself than about the petition. Someone at the Palace really needed to see it ASAP.

Maybe Solwen could have Brendal take it to someone at the Palace for them. Someone who would know what to do.

A knock at the study door. "Come in," Duncan called out.

The door opened, Haradoc stuck his head in. "Dinner's about to go out." He gestured at the computer. "You manage to do what you needed to do?"

"I think so, yes."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"Are you going to get involved in the rebuttal?"

Duncan didn't have to consider his answer. There was no way in hell he was letting these bastards do what they were trying to do. He closed the lid of the laptop over. "Dad, you bet your whole clan's honour I am."

And the good thing was, he might even have figured out that 'creative' angle Erella was interested in…

Could her shift have been any duller?

Nothing remotely newsworthy had happened today. No arguments, no crises, no tears, no stressed or furious people trying not to hurry along the King's Hall to tell His Blessed Majesty something he wouldn't want to hear. And most disappointing of all, no heated fallout from the Countess's speech to the Hall. At least, not that Godhild had seen. Bema only knew what people were saying about it behind closed doors.

The shift had been dull, but at least it was done. She'd clocked out at nine, gone down to the staff room to change, and now she was heading home to have an end-of-week drink with her sister. Probably more than one; she wasn't in until two tomorrow.

Her phone beeped in a way that chilled Godhild down to the bone. Four sharp, staccato buzzes—a pattern she'd set for only one person—a person she didn't want to talk to tonight. Or any other night, for that matter. But if wasn't as if she had any choice.

She pulled out her phone, relieved to see it was only a text. A text from this man was scary enough. A phone call was terrifying.

 _Any updates?_ was all the text said.

What the fuck to tell him? He didn't want insignificant stuff, such as how well the King's arm was healing, or even where he was going for the Midsummer break. He wanted the juicy stuff, and she hadn't had any of that for weeks—not since the night of the RAFTAs. Should she share what she'd found out? He'd want more, be annoyed when she didn't have it, but not as annoyed as if she gave him nothing at all.

 _He has a new girlfriend_ , she texted back. She didn't have to specify who 'he' was.

A long pause. So long Godhild started to think he'd abandoned the call.

 _Who?_ eventually appeared.

Who, who, who. The sixty-four-thousand-fucking-pound question. What the fuck did he think she'd spent the last three days trying to find out?

_Don't know yet. He's being very discreet. Trying to find out._

_Bring me a name, I'll pay you two._

Two thousand pounds. That would put a decent dent in her balance.

 _Will contact you when I know more_ , she texted back.

No response. He'd read all he needed to read, said all he needed to say. He didn't do social niceties, especially not with people as unimportant as her.

She looked around, feeling as if she had a giant 'traitor' sign on her head. But the street was empty, apart from her.

She wasn't the King. Nobody gave a shit what she did…


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solwen talks to her dad about the contents of the USB drive, and about that one unusual email Duncan read.
> 
> Duncan makes plans, and finds the angles he needs for his speech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is Solwen and Eomer's next date, so will take a bit of time - I want to do it properly!

**Saturday June 13, 2020**

She wasn't _completely_ lacking in manners, so she gave her dad at least twenty minutes to settle in and unpack his stuff before she knocked on his office door.

"Hey," she said when she stuck her head in. "How was your big government meeting?"

He smiled as he saw her and beckoned her in. "Was good," he said, setting his satchel on his desk to undo the straps. "I think I managed to do more or less what the PM sent me to do."

"How many chairs did you have to threaten to throw?"

He grinned. "Would you believe, I didn't even need to raise my voice once?"

Given how childish politicians could be, she absolutely didn't, no. "You sure it was a _government_ meeting?"

"A meeting to talk about handing out money," he pointed out. "Even government people cooperate when someone's about to line their pockets for them."

"Must feel nice to have some real political power for once. Instead of watching from the sidelines."

"I'm not complaining so far. It's definitely nice to have a seat at the table." He dropped a writing pad on his desk; it was covered in handwritten notes. "But I'm sure the sidelines will start to look appealing again at some point." He smirked. "It's easier to throw a chair when you stand at the side. You have more room to work up a good swing."

She wandered closer, angling her head to read the notes, cursing silently as he dropped a book on top of the pad. "And how's grandpa?" she asked, remembering what else he'd gone home to do. "He keeping well?"

"His knees are giving him trouble again, but apart from that, he's doing fine."

"He needs to take it easy, not do so much of the work with the trees." She'd tried to help out when she'd been home, but she didn't have her grandfather's years of experience (or even her father's, for that matter) so there had only been so much she could do.

"We actually talked about that." He unzipped the padded part of his satchel, pulled out his laptop and set it into the docking station. "And I think we'll need to talk about it again when we're all up for Midsummer." His voice took on a serious tone. "All of us. About who's going to manage the day-to-day operations."

Solwen knew what that meant—time for one of the kids to step up, move back to Isendale and take on running the family business. Probably Erland. He was the eldest son, the future earl, and the future owner of the estate. And it wasn't as if he hadn't always known it was coming.

But that was a problem for another time. Right now, she had something more pressing to tackle instead. "And did you manage to have a look at that drive?" she whispered, even though everyone else was out on the terrace. She hoped she didn't sound too pushy. But she'd given it to him on Wednesday night, and now it was Saturday afternoon. If they were going to do anything with the files, it would have to be soon.

To her relief, he nodded. "As it happens, yes, I did."

"And?"

He slipped behind her to push the door shut and pulled the stick out of his trouser pocket. "This," he said, holding it up, " is pretty much completely useless."

Solwen's heart sank. "How the hell can it be completely useless?" she said. "It's got a whole bunch of confidential information on it."

"But confidential doesn't mean good." He went to the window to push it open, letting a cool breeze into the room. "I read through everything three times last night. It's a mix of documents and emails. The documents are all either drafts of the Countess's speech, or files with supporting legal information. But she's given the speech, and her argument's out in the open now, so the files are all worthless."

She leaned against one of the bookcases next to the door. "What about the emails? There must be something in them we can use for the rebuttal?"

" _We_?" he repeated. A soft grin spread on his face. "You going to give your own rebuttal, sweet pea? Take a megaphone up to the balcony and shout it at us? Call Thenwis a thieving bitch and tell her to meet you outside with a knife?"

She grabbed a pen from a shelf and threw it at him. "Don't be an arse. You know what I mean."

"I certainly do." He leaned over to pick up the pen and jabbed the laptop power button. "The problem with the emails is, there's nothing illegal in any of them. The people behind them, they're all making a lot of plans about how to put Thenwis on the throne, but in a totally legal way."

"But legal doesn't mean right," she said, reluctantly using Keveleok's line.

"It doesn't, no. But morality isn't a black and white issue. What you view as right or wrong is probably different from what I view as right or wrong, and different again from what Keveleok views as right or wrong, or what Camelor views as right or wrong."

"Is this where I get the moral philosophy lesson?" As if last week's civics lesson hadn't been bad enough.

He grinned. "No moral philosophy lesson, no. And I'm not sure I would be qualified to give it. My morals are sometimes a little shady around the edges."

"Dad, our whole family is sometimes a little shady around the edges."

"Very true." He cracked the laptop lid, waited for the screen to come up and typed his password in. "But when I read the emails, I was _furious_." She could see how furious from the way his jaw tensed. "Not so much with what they're trying to do as the sheer entitlement on display," he said. "You'll be furious as well, if you read them. Problem is, other people in the Hall won't care. They might read the emails, see nothing wrong, wonder what all the fuss is about."

Too many people, she worried. "I guess that means you won't be sharing them with The Riddermark Record then?"

Sighing, he shook his head. "The guy I know, I can't see how he'll want to touch this. He would take the risk if he thought there was anything in the files the public really needed to see, evidence of illegal behaviour, for instance, but there isn't. Not really. It's just some conversations between a bunch of privileged, self-important people. And private conversations, at that. If he publishes what's on this"—he waved the drive at her again—"he would have to explain how he came to be in possession of the data. Probably to the police, I'll add, because there's not a chance in hell Keveleok wouldn't call them in once she realized the files were all hers. It won't take her long to figure out it was Henris who took them—"

"Henris won't talk," Solwen said. "She's too angry at her mum."

"You really think that?" he said. "You think a young woman as inexperienced as Henris can stand up to her mother in a full-on rage? Or, to being interviewed by the police?" He shook his head again. "Sorry, Solly, but I think you're wrong there. That's absolutely not going to happen. She's twenty-four, and she's never done anything without her mother's permission. She'll spill the beans in ten minutes flat. The police will leave the Countess's house, come straight here to interview you, and me as well, because there's no way I'd leave you to take the fall. So, even if leaking the files _did_ trigger a political scandal, it would be nothing compared to the scandal of you and me being arrested."

Bema, when he put it like that. "So, no leaking the files to the press."

"Not unless you want a criminal record, no."

And even if no charges were laid, just being publicly named and shamed would be enough to scupper anything she had going with the King. Which she would really rather not do. She liked him, and he seemed to like her. She really wanted whatever it was they had going to go somewhere good. "What about giving the files to whoever's going to do the rebuttal?"

He grinned that unbearably smug grin of his—the grin he showed when they played Lexico, and he knew the word he was about to put down was going to utterly annihilate her. "You already have," he said, holding out his arms to make a slight bow.

Two-faced, lying fucker. "You told me you didn't want to do it."

"I told you I didn't know _how_ I could do it," he said, turning solemn again. "But I've had some ideas." He let out a frustrated sigh. "And I can't _not_ get involved. Not after what I read. I _have_ to take these bastards on. Just to fuck up their plans, if nothing else."

"You won't be the only one, though, right? Giving the rebuttal, I mean?"

He turned to throw the drive on the desk. "Probably not. Erella wants to tackle the legal angle, talk about what overturning Thengwen's exclusion could mean for the stability of our legal system. But that's a purely academic matter. Not something anything in the files can help with."

"What's _your_ angle going to be?"

"That's a private matter for now."

She tried not to roll her eyes. Private matter, her arse. "You can just tell me you don't know yet. No need to be so mysterious about it."

"Like I said, I have some ideas. I'm going to think them over today. Do some research on a couple of points I think could be a good place to start."

"You should tell her soon. Erella, I mean. We talked a bit about the rebuttal on Thursday. She didn't say much, but I got the impression she's quite worried about it."

"She's extremely worried about it. Her background is Constitutional Law. She knows better than anyone how much of an absolute shitshow it's going to be if the Hall votes to pass the petition."

She pushed away from the bookcase to turn and scan the shelves. "It would still have to go to the House of Commons," she said, pulling out a book, trying to remember if she'd read it. "It's highly unlikely they'll ever vote to approve it. They're not as stupid as the Lords."

"Not usually, no. But they'll still have to spend time dealing with it. Time they don't really have. Not without pushing other issues off the schedule. And not frivolous issues either. The important stuff. The stuff that actually keeps the kingdom running."

"And time is money," she said. "So, there's a hard cost to all this as well."

"That's actually one of my topics." He moved the book on his desk to tap the pad with the scribbled notes. "Part of my angle. How much all this could cost."

"You'll need to be careful about how you discuss it," she warned. "When it comes to money, most of the Lords live in a different world."

He snorted. "Especially when the money is other people's."

"So, I should drop this down a storm drain, then?" she said, going to the desk to pick up the drive. "Like I was planning to do when I got off the bus?"

"Not yet, no."

"You said the info was useless."

"It _is_ useless. But there's one file you need to see. Not about the petition. About a totally different matter."

More problems. Just what she needed.

He took the drive from her and plugged it into the laptop slot. She came to stand beside him, watching as he opened the folder. "This email here," he said, pointing to the screen. He double-clicked to open the file. "From Keveleok to Camelor, back at the end of May."

"He _is_ involved, then. Camelor, I mean."

"Sorry, yes, I should have mentioned that. He's not just involved. He's in this up to his beady, wee eyes, running it all behind the scenes."

"Why am I not _remotely_ surprised?"

"Because he's Rogen Camelor. It's like being surprised when a scorpion stings." He swivelled the screen to let her see it. "Go on. Read this."

She scanned through the text, muttering under her breath. "I don't know about you, Rogen, but I would love to see the look on His Majesty's face when he reads what you've written—"

"She's talking about the petition," he said.

"—do you think your inside man could secretly take some photos of him for us?" she finished. She had to read it three times; her blood drained into her feet when she realized what the second part meant. "Inside man," she repeated. "Fuck me. Someone at the Palace is working for them."

Grim-faced, he nodded. " _Your_ inside man," he pointed out. "In an email _to_ Camelor. So, _he's_ got someone at the Palace. And knowing how his mind works, it won't be someone in the kitchen, or one of the lads who sorts the mail. It'll be someone reasonably close to the King."

"We need to get this to the King." Right fucking now, in her opinion. If he wasn't still blocking his number, she'd be running outside to bring him up on her phone.

"I was thinking that, yes. I'm just not sure how."

He was the Earl of Hamelmark, and a member of the Hall of Lords. He would be perfectly within his rights to request a formal audience with the King. Except, the request would have to go through about six different people, all of whom would want to know what the audience would be about. And it would probably take three bloody weeks to arrange. Her personal solution was better. "I, um, I could take it to the person I know who knows him," she said.

"You told me on Wednesday you weren't sure you could trust them."

"Not with the whole USB drive. And that was actually more about them not accidentally blabbing to the wrong person at the wrong time. For a single email, it won't be so much of a risk." It wouldn't be a risk at all, since she would do it herself, but she had to pretend she was talking about Elfhelm instead.

Bema. Sometimes, being a member of this family was just too fucking complicated. She was going to have to start keeping notes, about what lies and cover stories she'd told to whom. Or get one of those boards with the pins, and some red string to connect the points together…

"You could take them a printout," he said. "Would be even safer than taking an electronic file. The King only needs to read the message. And if his people decide they need the original email as well, you could follow up later."

"Good idea." She gestured at the screen. "Print it out for me. I'll deal with it from here."

"You'll speak to your people?"

Except, her 'people' was just the King. It would be easier, somehow, if it _was_ actually Elfhelm instead. She wouldn't be telling so many lies. "I certainly will."

He let out one of his fatherly sighs. "It worries me, you know. That you're not even thirty, and you already have people you can go to with issues like this." He clicked a button; the printer on the shelf sprang to life. "Your brother certainly doesn't."

"That's because Erland doesn't like knowing this kind of stuff goes on. It just gives him anxiety like nobody's business."

"Solly, it gives _everyone_ anxiety like nobody's business. Why the fuck do you think I smoke?"

She grabbed the paper from the printer, scanned it again, folded it up and stuck it in her back pocket. She would show it to Eomer tomorrow, at some point during their breakfast date. Precisely when, she wasn't quite sure. What was the etiquette for such matters, she wondered? Before or after the orange juice had been poured? It would be easier to contemplate if she had even half an idea how the King would react. Would he be grateful, or lose his shit at her?

"When do you think you'll get it done?" her dad said.

"Tomorrow morning," she said without thinking, then panicking slightly, added, "Or maybe tomorrow afternoon. Not sure. Definitely sometime tomorrow." Trying to distract him, she waved at his phone. "You should call the Countess of Darkfald. Let her know you've made your decision."

"I will."

"I'll keep you updated with my thing if you keep me updated with yours?"

"Deal."

She turned away, thinking about how to broach the email thing with the King…

"Oh, and Solly?" he called out as she reached the door.

"What?"

"If Henris asks, tell her I made you destroy the drive without looking at anything on it." His smile was polite. "Just in case."

He didn't think she should trust Henris, then. But there was sense to that—she'd known Henris for barely a week, and he and the Countess weren't exactly the warmest of friends. "Will do."

He propped his elbows on the desk and laid his head in his hands to massage his scalp. Why the hell was his life so fucking complicated these days?

It was all his own fault. One of the side effects of being good at solving problems was that people then brought you problems to solve. If he wanted a peaceful life, he should learn to do what so many people in the Hall did—shut the fuck up, take the allowance, and ignore everything everyone else in the whole world ever did or thought or said.

But for better or worse, that wasn't the man his parents had raised him to be. Or the man his sense of right and wrong would ever allow him to be.

He grabbed his phone to bring up Erella Darkfald's number. But instead of a call, Duncan decided to send her a text. She would be even busier than he was right now—no need to interrupt her Saturday afternoon with the kids. Although, with four kids, maybe she would want to be interrupted.

_Count me in for the rebuttal_ , he sent, then set his phone on the desk.

To his surprise, no sooner had he set the phone down than it let out a bing. _Serious?_ her curt response read.

_Absolutely._

_You have your creative angle?_

_I think so. Working on it some more today._

Her next response was a smiley face.

_Going to be a fair bit of work_ , he texted next. _Might not see me much this week._

_Be in on Monday. Need you for the big Finance bill. Can manage without you Tue and Wed._

Should he be offended or grateful for that, he wondered? Grateful seemed best. _Thanks._

_Talk more on Monday. Have a good weekend._

He put his phone down again, pulled his notepad with his scribbled notes out of the pile of stuff on his desk. On the top page, he'd written and underlined two words—MONEY and JUSTICE.

Solly had mentioned the money point. How much had it already cost, how much more would it cost, not just to debate the merits of the petition, but in the absolute worst case scenario—if the House of Commons also lost its collective mind—to legally implement it as well? He had some research to do.

The second heading was trickier. Keveleok was arguing, giving Thenwis the Crown was fair—a righting of a historical wrong. But what did 'fair' really mean? And who the hell would it be fair for? Not Eomer, that was for sure. Would it be fair for the people of Rohan as well? Plenty to think about there.

He'd considered including DUTY as well, trying to prove Eomer wasn't as reckless as everyone in the Hall thought. But everything he could say to that point, he'd already said on Thursday. And maybe best not to go looking too much, in case what he found was evidence that Eomer _was_ that reckless after all…

He grabbed his cigarettes from his coat, took one out, lit it up, and went to stand at the window. Nediriel hated it when he smoked in the house, but this was his office—the one room in the whole place where he made the rules. And he thought better when he smoked…

Nediriel went from corner to corner, turning out all of the living room lights.

She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark, then carefully made her way down the hall. Light was streaming out from under the door to Duncan's office. She hadn't seen much of him today—he'd come out only for coffee, food and more cigarettes. She wished he would give the stupid things up. She hated that he'd even started smoking again. It was all the strain of the bloody job.

She knocked gently on the door and stuck her head in. "Almost midnight," she said. "You coming to bed?"

Rubbing his eyes, he shook his head. "Give me another half hour. I'm in the middle of something right now, don't want to lose my train of thought."

He looked exhausted, but she knew better than to argue with him. "Is this for the Finance bill on Monday?"

"For the rebuttal to the Colafell petition."

"You told me you weren't going to get involved in that."

"Yeah. I, um, I might have changed my mind."

"Duncan…"

He raised a hand. "It won't be a problem, I promise. It has to be delivered on Thursday, so I only have another four days."

Four days during which they would barely see or speak to each other. But there was no point in arguing with him. This was in his bones; it was just who he was. He couldn't stay out of work he thought deserved to be done any more than he could stay out of who his daughter was dating. "Don't stay up too late. You don't want to mess it all up because you're too tired on Thursday to give a good speech."

His smile was soft. "I won't. I promise."

"See you soon." She stepped back, pulling the door shut as she went.

She loved her husband. Loved the home, the life and the family they'd built in Edoras together. And it _was_ her family, even though only one of the children was hers. But sometimes she wondered, if she'd known before she'd married him exactly what being the Countess of Hamelmark would mean, would she have agreed to marry him so quickly?

She would still have said yes, she was sure. It would just have been nice to know a _tiny_ bit more…

Duncan added three more points to his list, one under MONEY, two under JUSTICE.

But the second heading wasn't quite right. Justice was about the law. And no laws were being broken here. He scored through the word, wrote in FAIRNESS instead.

It was a hell of a list. And if he put the points together in the right order, it would be a hell of a rebuttal as well. It would certainly meet Erella's 'creative' requirement. But was it too much? If he argued these points, would he push the Lords too far, make them vote against him out of anger instead of with him out of fear? And even if they voted with him, how many colleagues might he alienate in the process? Would Erella ever speak to him again?

That was a risk he would just have to take.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solwen prepares for her breakfast date, and overhears an interesting conversation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to include the actual date with Eomer, but I'm stuck in a writing rut right now, and this section was 90% done, so I thought I should at least get this up.
> 
> I will start writing the next chapter as soon as real life stops kicking my ass and I'm able to focus.
> 
> Also, I have now removed a plot point I introduced right at the very end of chapter 58, concerning the Elgoll family. It was a complication too far, so I've reworked it to go back to what I originally had planned. If you re-read, it's only the very final section.

**Sunday June 14, 2020**

Eight twenty-five.

She still had twenty-five minutes before the car from the Palace arrived. Assuming the car was coming at eight-fifty, of course. But Eomer had said the same arrangements as Tuesday night, so a ten minute window made sense.

She checked her outfit in the mirror—plain, black slip-on boots, her most flattering pair of jeans, a smart, white button-up blouse she'd bought on her last vacation in Dale and another pretty cardigan, just in case the terrace was cool. She'd tied her hair away from her face, and had even put some makeup on—enough to highlight her cheekbones and eyes, but not so much she looked like a clown. Her watch and her mother's silver pendant completed the look.

The email printout was in her back pocket. She still hadn't decided how she was going to tackle the issue. She could work the conversation around to the matter of the petition, maybe raise the email from there. Except, the petition might not be something the King wanted to talk about right now. It might be a sensitive subject, given the Countess was trying to use the petition to kick him out of his job. But given who her dad was, and the counterpoints he'd made on Thursday, it seemed like a perfectly suitable topic of conversation to her. People who didn't want to talk politics shouldn't go on breakfast dates with politician's daughters…

She grabbed her phone, her keys and her cards, stuffing the latter two in various pockets. The question now—spend the next twenty minutes up here, safe from prying questions, or head downstairs, and risk having to face another paternal interrogation. The former was safer, the latter politer.

Safety (or cowardice) won. She flopped onto the window seat and opened her phone to check for messages and news.

She heard voices and clinking glasses outside. A quick peek out the open window showed her dad on the terrace below, casually dressed, barefoot again, a towel cast over his shoulder, setting out a breakfast for two on the patio table. Nediriel's favourite, from what she could see—bacon and egg baked in avocado. And it looked as if he'd made it himself—he must be trying to make up for going AWOL for most of last night.

"Brendal?" Nediriel's muffled voice said. Her next words were clearer as she appeared on the terrace. "Are you sure?"

Why the hell was Nediriel discussing _Brendal_ , of all people? Solwen hunkered at the window, moving closer but staying down, trying to listen in without being seen. Not that anyone down on the terrace would see her unless they looked up. But if there was one thing she'd learned from being Duncan Hamelmark's daughter, it was that one could never be too careful when one was sneaking around.

"I'm not sure at all," her dad said. "But it fits a few suspicions I had."

"He _does_ like motorbikes. That's something, I suppose."

"Plus, he's from the March, so they'll have cultural stuff in common as well. She won't have to explain the local politics to him, and he won't tease her about the way she speaks."

Chair legs scraped across stone. "You aren't worried about how much older he is?"

"He's only forty-two. Not exactly ready to start claiming his pension."

"Who the hell was the 'her' they were talking about? Did Brendal have a girlfriend he hadn't mentioned? A much younger girlfriend, from the sounds of Nediriel's concerns? Good for him if he did—he should have something in his life that wasn't just work. But how the _hell_ had her dad found out?

"Okay, but aren't you related to him?" Nediriel asked.

"He's my third cousin," her dad said. "We only have our great-great-grandparents in common. Not like they're uncle and niece."

Why the hell did her dad's relationship to Brendal matter? Not like _who_ were uncle and niece? Could her dad or Nediriel be just a _little_ more helpful with their remarks? Maybe mention the young lady's name?

Nediriel let out a sigh.

"You sound upset," her dad said.

Cutlery clanged on a plate. "I'm not upset at all. And the whole thing's really none of my business. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"I'm trying to think of how to say it politely."

Her dad snorted. "Don't see why. Nobody else in this house ever does."

Bema, wasn't that the truth…

"It's just, I'm sure Brendal's a very nice man, but he's"—another pained sigh—"he's awfully _plain_."

So, Nediriel didn't think Brendal was much of a looker, then? Which, to be fair, he really wasn't. Not in the classical, chiselled-jaw sense, at least. But plenty of people would still find him appealing. Solwen didn't—he wasn't her type—but some people probably wouldn't think Eomer was attractive, either.

"Not everyone can be as beautiful as you, my love," her dad said softly.

"Flattery will get His Lordship everywhere."

"I'll remind Her Ladyship of that later tonight."

Stifling a groan, Solwen clamped her hands to her ears. The last thing she needed to hear at eight-thirty-five on a Sunday morning was her dad and her stepmother planning some late night frolics between the sheets. Not _quite_ as bad as the time she'd had to listen to Erland and his boyfriend fucking each other into next week, but still.

"So you don't disapprove of them dating, then?" Nediriel said.

"Not at all, no."

"Are you going to ask her about it?"

Still with this 'her'. Who the hell was the woman they were talking about? From the sounds of it, someone both her dad and Nediriel knew. And someone more or less her own age, given Nediriel's initial concern. She racked her brain, trying to think of who it could be. Maybe one of Jonrick's daughters?

"Probably not," her dad said.

"No more interfering father routine, then?"

Interfering father routine.

The 'her' they were talking about was _her_. Her dad thought she was dating Brendal.

Holy Bema and the horse he rode in on. This was… it was so ridiculous, she couldn't even find the right words. How the _hell_ had her father come up with that? She moved closer to the window again, all guilt about listening gone. She was the subject of the discussion, so it wasn't really eavesdropping now.

"No more nosy questions, I promise," her dad said. "It was only ever about wanting to know she'll be safe."

"And you think she'll be safe with Brendal?"

"Absolutely. My dad's known him since he was born. He's a good man. There's not a chance in hell he'll ever lay a finger on her."

Solwen couldn't disagree there. For all she still didn't know him that well, her impression of Brendal was that he didn't have a mean or violent bone in his body.

"Didn't you tell me used to be married?"

"When he was younger, yes. Before he moved to Edoras, I think. Long time ago now."

"But it wasn't an ugly divorce?"

"No idea. You'd have to ask them. Don't think so, though. Think it was like Godith and me, just a case of growing up and growing apart."

Someone stirred a spoon in a cup. "And you said Brendal works for the King?" Nediriel asked.

"Calantha told me he looks after all the King's bikes."

"Why do I know that name?"

"Brendal's mother. You've met her a couple of times at the house. Tall, blonde, laughs like a drain."

"Right, yes. I remember the laugh. She's the Giantsbane, isn't she? The one your related to Brendal through? Not his dad?"

"That's right."

When the hell had her dad spoken to Brendal's mum? Calantha lived in Isendale—he must have bumped into her on Friday when he'd gone to the March for his meeting. But that still didn't explain why her dad thought she and Brendal were dating. It certainly wasn't because Brendal somehow thought they were dating. He was one of maybe five people on the whole planet who knew she was actually seeing the King.

"You _did_ tell me you thought she was dating someone who worked at the Palace."

Bingo, and there it was. She remembered the comment her dad had made last week, after the baby naming party. He'd put two and two together, come up with four, except, one of the twos was really a three, and he should have come up with five instead.

"Not sure why she didn't tell me the truth when she took the 'fax to Brendal to get it fixed," her dad said. The slightly wounded tone _almost_ made her feel sorry for him. "He _must_ have done the work at the Palace. And she must have gone there to pick it up. That's not the kind of thing you accidentally forget to mention."

"She told you Brendal worked in a private place with a small clientele. And the Palace is certainly that."

"Yeah, but come _on_."

"She's her father's daughter, Duncan. _Awfully_ good at keeping secrets."

Her dad sighed. "And at collecting them as well."

"Do I even want to know what that means?"

"Probably best if you don't."

"Is it about all the furtive conversations you've been having this week?" Nediriel said. "Don't think I haven't noticed those. The two of you have been skulking around, whispering like you're plotting a murder."

"No murder plotting, I promise. Just something from work Solly's helping me with."

"You better not get her into any kind of legal trouble," Nediriel said in a maternally protective way that warmed Solwen down to her bones. "You're protected from prosecution by the Privilege of Peerage laws. _She_ isn't."

"I know she isn't," her dad quietly said. "But it's fine. Nothing for anyone to worry about."

A heavy sigh. "So, now you know who Solly's boyfriend is, you'll need to find something else to poke your nose into."

"Yeah, I thought I might have a quick chat with Asta later. Find out what his love life looks like these days."

"Duncan…"

"I'm _kidding_."

Except, no, he probably wasn't…

Solwen had heard enough; she moved away from the window to sit on her bed.

What the fuck to do now? It would be a bit cruel, to let her dad and Nediriel go on thinking she and Brendal were dating. But it would be awfully helpful as well. As long as her dad thought he knew the truth, he would stop prying into her private affairs. If she told him she and Brendal _weren't_ dating, he would start snooping all over again. And the more he snooped, the greater the chance he would dig up the truth. And she didn't want him to find out the truth. Not yet, at least. Not until things between her and the King were more settled and further along.

It was just too good a cover story. If someone saw her going into the Palace, she would have an excuse. Especially since Colwenna was always bringing her in through the garage. And what if Eomer decided to take Brendal to the March with him over the Midsummer break? Then, she could visit the King at his house without having to create a novel's worth of creative excuses about where she was going. Her dad would just assume she was popping over to spend time with Brendal instead.

The only problem was, Brendal would have to be in on the act. And probably Erland as well. And, if things got really complicated, maybe even Eomer, too.

Hmm.

She was _totally_ going to hell for this. The number of times she'd lied to her dad since she'd come home from Minas Tirith, someone should just buy her a one-way, non-refundable ticket right now.

How nice it would be, if she could just be honest with him instead…

She decided right there and then, she would stick with the lie until after the Oath Anniversary banquet. If she and Eomer were still involved by the end of August, she would 'fess up, tell her dad and Nediriel the whole story. But probably not Astalor—he could give Elfhelm a run for his money in the accidental blabbing department. If she told him, it would be on the front page of The Sun the following morning.

The clock said eight thirty-eight; almost time to head out. But now she knew she wouldn't get the fatherly third degree, it was safe to go downstairs and have a quick chat.

As she passed the door to the living room, she saw the TV was on. When she stuck her head in, she found Erland on the couch, wearing a robe over pajamas, working his way through a bowl of yoghurt and fruit, his feet up on the coffee table, watching some shitty children's cartoons.

"Hey," she said, pushing the door over behind her. "Need a quick word."

He reached for the remote, probably to press the Mute button; she put out her hand to wave him away. "No, leave the volume on." The noise would help to cover their conversation.

"What's up?" he said.

"You know how dad's been poking around about who I'm dating?"

"Uh huh?"

"He's apparently decided he's figured it out, even though I haven't told him."

A knowing grin spread on Erland's face. "And who does His Lordship think you're dating?"

"Brendal."

He dropped his spoon in his bowl. "Sorry?"

"He thinks Brendal is my boyfriend." She took a breath. "And I've decided I'm not going to correct him."

"What?"

"I'm not going to correct him," she repeated. "I'm going to let him think he's right."

"Okay, lemme get this straight." He scooped up a piece of melon. "You're going to deliberately let dad think _Brendal_ —the forty-something bike mechanic he's distantly related to—is the guy you've been meeting for drinks?"

"I am, yes."

"Okay, but _why_?"

"Because it's a _really_ good way to hide who I'm actually meeting. You know how dad works. If he thinks he's figured it out, he'll stop looking for another answer."

"True."

"Will you play along with it? Pretend he's right if he asks you about it? And Nediriel as well?"

Erland chewed his way through the melon. "I'm not really comfortable with lying," he eventually said. "Especially not to dad. He'll see through me pretty quickly. I'm not as good at hiding things from him as you are."

Probably because Erland hadn't had to hide anywhere _near_ as many things from him. "You won't really need to lie. Just imagine everything I've told you so far was about Brendal instead of the King, and run with it from there."

"You've barely told me anything at all."

"Exactly."

He heaved a put-upon sigh. "If I help you out, what do I get in return?"

Was 'not being kicked in the face' a suitable answer? Probably not. "What did you have in mind?"

He shrugged. "Nothing specific right now. Let's just keep it on the books for the future."

"As long as you're reasonable about it when you finally call it in."

"I'm always reasonable." He jabbed his spoon at her. "You're the one who punches people, remember?"

One time. One goddamn, fucking time…

She checked her watch; eight-forty-three now. "We'll talk more later, put a few more details in place. I'm about to head out."

"The hell are you going at quarter to nine on a Sunday?" he said, frowning.

"I'm going on a breakfast date."

"With you-know-who?" he whispered; she didn't know why—dad and Nediriel were two rooms and an outside wall away.

She nodded.

He stabbed a piece of banana. "If he asks you how you like your eggs, for the love of Bema, don't say 'unfertilized', please."

"I'm not _that_ unsubtle."

His answer was a doubting look.

"Gotta run. Just remember, I'm dating Brendal, okay?"

He flipped a lazy salute. "Brendal. You got it."

She hurried out to the terrace. "Good morning," she said, going to give Nediriel a hug and her dad a quick kiss on the head.

"Morning, sweet pea." Her dad gestured at her outfit. "You look awfully nice for Sunday morning. Heading somewhere?"

"I’m meeting someone for breakfast," she said.

"A someone we know?"

She flashed an innocent smile. "Just the guy I had drinks with on Tuesday. He's picking me up in a couple of minutes."

"He's keen."

"That's okay. So am I." Ridiculously keen, as it happened—she couldn't wait to see Eomer again. Her stomach fluttered just thinking about it. Or, it might be body parts further south; she wasn't quite sure.

"Going somewhere nice?" Nediriel said.

"No idea. It's his choice today." She shrugged. "But you can't really go wrong with breakfast."

"Well, have fun," her dad added. "Hope the breakfast is good." He picked up his coffee to sip it.

She couldn't resist the urge to poke him. "Have fun? That's all you're going to say? You're not going to ask me how much he earns? Or where his family's from? Or what football team he supports? Or what his inside leg measurement is?"

Primly, he said, "I promised I wouldn't pry, so I'm not going to pry."

He was such a goddamn fucking liar. She got that talent from him as well, it seemed. The two of them were going to Liar's Hell together. They should ask for a family discount on the tickets.

"Glad to hear it." She checked her watch; she still had a few minutes. "Okay, well. I'm going to go wait at the top of the drive. Just in case he's minutes early. You guys enjoy the rest of your morning, I'll catch up with you in a few hours." She turned to head for the front door.

"Solly?" her dad called out.

"What?"

"Are you going to deal with that thing we discussed last night?" he asked.

Smiling, she tapped her back pocket. "All in hand."

"Good girl. Tell me later how it works out?"

"Will do."

He thought she was going to give the printout to Brendal, and Brendal was going to pass it on to the King. What would he do, if he knew she was going to give it to the King herself?

He would probably drop every swear word he knew, then have a cigarette and a stiff drink…

The car turned up at eight-fifty precisely; to her relief, the driver was Yelisan again.

"Hey there," Solwen said as she climbed in the front. "Good to see you again. Was hoping it would be you." If only so she didn't have to explain the whole 'getting in the front seat' thing again. She didn't think her dad would be watching today, but better to be safe than sorry.

"Good to see you, too, My Lady. How are you this morning?"

"I'm excellent, thank you." She turned to pull down and fasten her belt. "But please, call me Solwen."

Yelisan signalled and pulled away from the curb. "Another meeting with Colwenna?"

"A breakfast meeting, yes." She wondered if Yelisan had realized her cover story didn't make sense. Why would Colwenna's guest be coming in through the garage, of all places? But she'd never asked, so Solwen assumed she'd just decided the explanation was none of her business. "I'm really hungry, so looking forward to it." She just hoped her rebellious stomach didn't put in an appearance at the wrong moment again today.

"I'm sure the chefs will cook up something really nice for you."

"You ever eat in the Palace?"

"Just in the canteen."

"There's a canteen?"

Grinning, Yelisan nodded. "Down in one of the lower levels. Seats about a hundred. It's where most people who work in the Household go to get fed. Some people go to places out on the hill, but that takes time, and there's the security issue, getting in and out through the gates. Plus, the canteen is subsidised. And the food's really good." She let out a soft groan. "Especially the mini chocolate lava cakes. They're to _die_ for. If they're on the menu today, you should absolutely have them."

"I'll keep that in mind. And I honestly had no idea. That the Palace had a canteen, I mean."

"Would it surprise you to know, we have a bank machine, a beauty salon, a gym, a movie theatre, a post office and a medical suite as well?"

"Really?"

"Oh, and a full-sized swimming pool, too. Next to the gym. I've seen it, but I haven't been in it yet."

"Not much of a swimmer?"

"Oh, no, I love to swim." Yelisan made a slight face. "It's just, the King apparently swims a lot, so I've been too scared to go. The last thing I need is to come face to face with His Majesty while I'm in my one piece and cap and he's in a soaking wet pair of shorts."

That would be slightly alarming, yes. Her own first meeting with the King had been stressful enough, and they'd both been fully clothed at the time. "Is there anything the Palace doesn't have?" Solwen asked.

Yelisan pondered her answer. "I was going to say, a shooting range, but we probably do, and I just don't know where it is."

"The security people will know where it is. You should ask one of them."

"Godhild could probably tell me. She's one of the King's personal guards. She must have to practise as part of her job."

"I'd hope so, yes."

The chatter stopped as the car pulled up to the gate, but just like before, the guards waved them through without so much as a second glance.

"You could really do a lot of damage, you know," Solwen said. "With this sticker honour system, I mean. You could take a car out, bring anyone or anything back, nobody would be any the wiser."

"There's actually a little more to it than just the sticker. I can't even get the keys to the car if I don't have an authorized job." Yelisan tapped the GPS unit. "Plus, my route and mileage is tracked. If I go too far off course, someone back at the Palace will know."

"No sneaking out in a car to pick up your lunch or dry cleaning, then?"

"Bema, no. They're really strict about stuff like that. Using a car for personal stuff without permission is an instant sacking offence."

"I'm curious, what else is a sacking offence?"

"What you'd expect. No drinking on the job. _Huge_ no-no. Dangerous driving, obviously. Being rude to passengers, even when it's deserved." Yelisan grinned. "No _inappropriate_ behaviour in the back of the car. If you're the driver, I mean. The passengers can do what they want."

"I just hope they put the screen up first." And that they cleaned the seats after.

"You'd be amazed, you know. What people do and say in the back while the screen's down. I think they forget I'm here."

Or, more likely, they just assumed that because Yelisan was 'only' a driver, she wouldn't pay attention to what they were doing…

The garage was quiet when they pulled in. Apart from a couple of guys at the very far end, tinkering with a work van's innards, there was nobody in the whole place. A little frustrating—she'd been hoping to catch Brendal again, let him know she needed to speak to him in private later. But she had his home number. She would call him later tonight, arrange to talk to him away from the Palace.

More worrying than the absence of Brendal was the absence of the 'foot. It wasn't where she'd seen it on Tuesday, or in any of the other bays, for that matter. She hoped that didn't mean matters had come to the worst, and the bike had been taken away to be scrapped.

Colwenna was waiting, standing primly at the door that led into the Palace, impecabbly dressed, heels together, hands lightly clasped over her front.

"I hope I'm not late," Solwen said, checking the time.

"You're right on time," Yelisan said. "She's just a few minutes early."

The car came to a gentle stop. Solwen unclipped her belt and pulled the handle to let herself out. "Will I see you on the way out?"

Yelisan nodded. "I'll be here to take you home as well."

"I'll catch up with you then. You have a good morning."

"You too."

Colwenna smiled as she approached—more warmly than on her previous visit. "Lady Solwen, good morning. Nice to see you again, how are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you. And you?" Solwen asked, covering the usual niceties and salutations.

"I'm very well." Colwenna nodded at the car. "But I have to ask, was there something wrong with the back seat?"

Because she'd been in the front. "Not at all, no." Solwen shrugged. "I just like to talk to the driver, and that's easier to do in the front."

"Of course," Colwenna said, obviously not convinced. Smiling again, she turned to wave to the door. "If you'll follow me, His Majesty is waiting upstairs."

"Lead the way. I'm right behind you."

In the elevator, Colwenna spoke first. "I saw your father on the news on Thursday."

"You watched the coverage of the petition speech?" Probably best not to mention she'd gone to watch it firsthand herself.

"I certainly did."

"What did you think of it all?"

"It was… thought provoking," Colwenna said. "But I certainly appreciated the counterpoints your father made in the King's defense." Her voice went quiet. "A great many of us here did. So, however the petition turns out, let him know, he has our thanks for trying to help." Hastily, she added, "Unofficially, of course. You know we can't say anything on the record."

"Of course." The elevator ground to a halt. As Colwenna led her out, Solwen added, "If it's any comfort, he's going to be involved in the rebuttal as well."

Colwenna stopped dead in her tracks. "Really?"

She nodded. "Lady Darkfald is going to speak to the legal ramifications first, he'll speak after her."

"That's _extremely_ gratifying to hear." Colwenna started walking again. "Bema knows we need good people involved."

So, her dad was 'good people' now? Amazing, what standing up to argue a speech could do for one's public standing. Although, Colwenna might not feel the same way about her dad after he'd given his rebuttal. Solwen didn't know what he was going to say, but she had the feeling it was going to be a popcorn-worthy event.

But if Colwenna was willing to tackle the topic, did that mean the King was as well? "Colwenna, while we're on the subject, can I ask, is the Colafell petition something I shouldn't raise with the King? It's obviously a hot topic right now, but I wouldn't want to offend him. Or do something that's breaking the law. I know he's supposed to stay neutral on political matters."

Colwenna stopped again to quietly add, "If he's in the mood, by all means, talk about it as much as you want. But you _must_ remember, whatever he says, is strictly his private opinion on the issue. Under no circumstances should you repeat what he says to anyone outside these walls, no matter how much you might trust them. What anyone in the Palace says, for that matter. Not just the King." She showed a reassuring smile. "And that privacy goes both ways. What you just told me won't ever be repeated to anyone outside this building, either."

That was relieving to hear. And it made it safe to say more. "It's okay to tell you, then, that my father is planning to rip the petition to pieces?"

Colwenna glanced around, but there was nobody in sight. "Lady Solwen, believe me when I say, I'm absolutely _thrilled_ to hear that."

"I thought you might be."

"Share that with the King, if you can. After the week he's had, he needs some good news."

"Has it been a bad week?"

"It's been… challenging, yes. The workload, the petition, his arm, giving up racing…"

Shock flared in Solwen's veins. "He's giving up racing?" He'd discussed the issue with her on Tuesday, but he'd seemed so adamant he wouldn't have to. And that he _shouldn't_ have to. Perhaps the Countess's remarks on that matter had hit slightly too close to home.

"He is, yes. He decided it's too dangerous, puts too much stress on other people, so he's going to stick to normal riding now. A good decision, I think, but it still upset him to have to make it."

"Understandable."

"So, you can see, it's been a difficult week." Colwenna's smile was honest and warm. "But I'm sure your visit will cheer him up no end."

Not if she was coming to give him more bad news, it wouldn't. The piece of paper in her back pocket felt as heavy as a lead weight. Maybe Colwenna was the answer. Maybe, instead of telling the King, and ruining what should be a nice date, she should tell the head of the King's Household instead? She was sure she could trust the older woman—Colwenna had known the King his whole life, been looking after him since he was twelve. There was no way in _hell_ she was Camelor's inside man. And she would know who to speak to next—who else in the Household could be trusted to hunt down the spy.

No. It wasn't right. Ultimately, the only person she could trust with the email was the King. It would have to go straight to him, whether it would ruin their date or not. He should decide who in the Household should be brought in to deal with the matter, not her.

Solwen smiled. "I'll do my best."

Colwenna checked the time. "Let's get you out to the terrace, before the King starts to worry you've stood him up." They strode through the usual series of hallways and turns—Solwen thought she was getting the hang of the layout now—arriving at the door to the terrace.

Colwenna scanned her card to unlock the door. "His Majesty is waiting for you. Enjoy your breakfast."


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer and Solwen have their second date. Solwen shares some troubling information with him.
> 
> Warning for mild / implied smut.

He was at the table, pouring some coffee into a mug.

She was relieved to see he'd followed his own dress code advice. He was wearing another smart pair of jeans, paired with a light grey, long-sleeved tee with seams that made it look as if he was wearing it inside out. His left arm was still in the sling, but from the way he was filling the cup, he was getting used to only having one hand.

Seeing him triggered an instant response. Her innards seized, and her mind started to whisper wicked things to her—things involving mouths and fingers and buttons and zips. She ordered the wicked thoughts to retreat. First and foremost, she was here to have breakfast with him. The naughtier stuff would just have to wait.

"If you're pouring, I'll have one as well," she called out.

His head came up; the smile he showed her made her thighs shiver and her libido threaten to rise up again. "Was wondering when you would show up," he said. He grabbed another mug to fill it. "How do you take it?"

Oh, the _utterly_ filthy things she could say. None of them any more suitable than Erland's 'unfertilized eggs' advice. "Black, no sugar, please," she said.

"Hardcore. I like it."

"Something I started doing in Mordor. I used to drink it with cream and sugar, but most Mordorians drink it black, and asking for stuff always caused a bunch of hassle, so it was easier to just do what they do." She stepped to the table. "And good morning, by the way."

"Sorry, good morning, yes," he said, smiling again. He set her mug on the table. "No problems getting here, I assume?"

"None at all. Yelisan was as efficient as always."

"Glad to hear it."

They were standing awfully close. Close enough she could easily push up to kiss him. Was that allowed? Or was she supposed to wait for him to make the first move?

Fortunately, telepathy was one of his talents. "I, uh, I'm going to…" He gestured from his face to hers, then leaned in, gently bringing their lips together. The smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of his stubble scraping her cheek—it took all of two seconds for the heat in her stomach to kick in again. Just as she was about to grab a fistful of shirt, he pulled away, licking his lips, sighing slightly. The heavy look in his eyes told her she wasn't the only one suffering from a serious case of the hot flashes.

"That's a nice way to start a Sunday morning," she said.

"I can think of worse ways to start it." He turned to the table to pull out a chair. "Have a seat, please."

"Thank you." She claimed her chair, pulling her cup of coffee towards her. She noticed then, how beautifully the table was set, with crisp white linens, elegant glasses (no expensive Eadom crystal today), fine china plates and a vase of colourful, freshly-cut flowers. Whoever had set it had done a beautiful job. "The flowers are lovely," she said, gesturing to the vase.

"Colwenna's choice. She's really good with stuff like that, so I always leave it to her." He took the seat on her right—less formal than sitting across from each other. "So, how was the rest of your week?" he said.

"Pretty quiet." Apart from the business with the USB stick, but best not to mention that yet. "And yours?"

"Busy. People to meet, places to be, ribbons to cut, speeches to give." He shrugged. "The usual."

"I saw you on the news last night. At the Royal Academy thing." Presenting awards to various people.

"I actually enjoyed it," he said. "Wasn't as daunting as I expected."

She was desperate to ask him about the 'foot, and why it hadn't been in the garage, but she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the response. "I, um, I didn't see the Firefoot when I came in. I hope that doesn't mean anything bad."

"Quite the opposite, in fact. You'll be pleased to know, Brendal told me on Thursday, all the damage can be fixed."

Relief flooded through her. "No serious structural problems, then?"

He shook his head. "Was all either minor damage or just cosmetic. He told me he was going to take her somewhere to have her resprayed, so that might be why you didn't see her. Or, she's in a back room somewhere. But it's not because she's been taken away to be scrapped, don't worry."

"It must have been a relief, when he told you she wasn't a goner."

" _Huge_ relief." He spooned some sugar into his coffee and stirred it. "If the news had been bad, I'm not sure how I would have reacted."

"Pretty sure I would have cried," she said.

"I don't think I would have cried. At the end of the day, she _is_ just a bike, so it wouldn't have been as bad as saying goodbye to a person or pet, but I would definitely have had a lump in my throat."

The mention of pets made her realize she hadn't seen any hanging around on either of her previous visits. Did he have them, and he just kept them inside? The terrace would be fine for a dog, but not so good for a cat, given their talent for jumping over fences and walls.

"Do you have any pets?" she asked.

"Not at the moment, no. When I was younger, yes."

"Too busy to have one now?"

"Mostly that, yes." His expression turned sombre. "Plus, the last time I buried a pet, I decided I couldn't do it again."

Understandable, given the people he'd buried as well—his parents, his aunt, his uncle, his cousin. "How long ago was that?"

"Twelve years ago now." Sighing, he shook his head. "Can't believe it's been that long."

"And what kind of pet was it?"

"A beagle." A warm grin spread on his face. "An absolute cutie, but dumb as a rock. She used to fart herself awake, and try to bite her own reflection in the mirror."

That sounded like a few men she knew. The 'farting themselves awake' part at least. "What was her name?"

"Melian. Mellie for short. Eowyn's choice, I'll add. Not mine."

"It's a lovely name."

"Yeah, but Melian was a Maia, and my dog was the least Maia-like creature you've ever met." He gestured at her. "What about you? You ever have any pets?"

"When I was younger, yes. But not since I moved away for school."

"Too busy whooping it up as a single girl around town?"

"More because I moved around so much for work. Taking a pet across a border's a pretty stressful experience. The paperwork's a nightmare, and some countries make you put them in quarantine for as long as six months. Wouldn't have been fair on the animal to do that to them."

"I suppose not, no." He sipped his coffee. "And what kind of pets did you have?"

"The usual. A hamster. A guinea pig. A cat." Best not to mention the cat had eaten the hamster…

He made a pained face. "And this is where it starts to go wrong."

"Where what starts to go wrong?"

"This," he said, using his cup to gesture between them. "Us."

"What, because I had pets?" she said, thrilled he thought there was an 'us' to go wrong.

"Because you had cats."

"What's wrong with cats?"

"Um, they're _assholes_?"

She'd heard this before; she prepped her usual response. "So are most people. What's your point?"

"They're so _judgy_." He scrunched his nose. "They always look at you as if they're disparaging all your life choices."

"Maybe they are. Maybe all your life choices deserve to be disparaged."

"Dogs make a _much_ better pet," he declared, completely ignoring her remark. "They're smart, and loyal, and loving. You can play fetch with them. You can train them to bring things to you. A dog will never puke a hairball into your shoes, or leave a mouse on your pillow, or jump on your dining room table to lick its butt at you while you're trying to eat dinner."

"But it _will_ eat another dog's poop. I've never seen a cat do that."

He sat back, sipping his coffee, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. "I should have known you would be a cat person."

"Meaning?"

"You're a Hamelmark."

Her outer defenses started to simmer. " _Meaning_?"

"You think like a cat. You'll be loyal, and do what you're told, but only for as long as it suits you. The minute it doesn't, you'll just run off to do your own thing instead."

"Your Majesty, I hate to be the one to say this, but has it ever occurred to you, maybe us and the cats have the right idea?"

He cocked a brow. "Meaning?"

"Maybe being as loyal as a well-trained dog isn't always a good idea. Maybe some laws and orders deserve to be questioned."

"Even when they come from a King?"

" _Especially_ when they come from a King."

"Explain," he said, curious, but with the _tiniest_ hint of annoyance.

If she'd known she would have to give him a civics lesson, she would have brought her dad with her. "A King has nobody above him to keep him in check—"

"That's the whole point," he interjected. "The King's supposed to be at the top. There _can't_ be someone above him to keep him in check." He smirked. "Except maybe the Gods."

"That might be how it works in Gondor, but it's never been the way it works here. We don't do the whole divinely anointed thing. Our Kings have always reigned with the collective consent of the people, even back when they ruled instead. We've always had the idea that when there's nobody above you to keep you in check, the people below you should be able to do it."

He gave her a dubious look. "So that's what your family's all about, then? You're not stirring up a shitload of trouble so much as performing a valuable public service?"

She shrugged. "That's how my grandmother always looked at it. She used to say it was the only way to stop a King from turning into a tyrant."

"And nobody wants a tyrant wearing the Crown."

"Not in Rohan, we don't." Fengel and Thengel's reigns had taught them that. "Gondor can do what it wants."

He sat back, eyeing her again.

"You look as if you're not sure what to think," she said.

"I know what _I_ think. I'm just trying to decide what my grandmother would say."

Why did he care so much what his grandmother thought? He was the King of Rohan, not her. He could believe whatever he wanted, whether the Steelsheen liked it or not. "Didn't you tell me before she would order her guards to have me flogged?"

He grinned. "She would, yes. And in public, I think. Out in Hornburg Square, with a crowd of people watching."

"Just so you know, your grandmother so much as looks at me funny, my grandfather will cut her in half."

"She's a hundred and four," he protested. "And a Dowager Queen."

"He's eighty-two. And a Giantsbane. He won't bloody care."

"He's a little protective of you, then?"

What a rather strange question to ask. "He's my grandfather. Of course he is. Isn't your grandmother protective of you as well?"

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "She, uh, she has a different view on family from your grandfather, I think."

Meaning, his happiness wasn't a priority for her. "She _is_ Gondorian. They do things slightly differently there."

"Oh? How so?"

He'd been to Gondor, numerous times. He must surely know what she meant. Maybe he did, and he was just asking to hear her opinion. "Gondorians attach a lot of value to their name. Way more than anyone in Rohan does. Especially if they're High Family. Their reputation is _everything_ for them. They have to be seen to be doing the right thing, even if it makes them unhappy. They go into careers they don't really want, and marry people they don't really like, just because it's what's expected of them."

"Duty, Honour, Country," he murmured.

"Sorry?"

"That's the motto of the House of Lossarnach," he said. "The High Family my grandmother belonged to. Or belongs to, rather."

That sounded like a typical High Family saying. They all followed more or less the same theme—none of them ever espoused something bold or creative instead. "It's not just the House of Lossarnach. They're _all_ like that. Honour and duty always come first."

"That ever cause problems for you when you lived there?"

"Not really, no. Made for a hilariously uncomfortable moment when I met the parents of a guy I dated for a few months. He was a distant cousin of the Prince of Linhir, they expected him to marry well, didn't approve of him getting involved with an untitled outsider."

"Your father is a fairly high-ranking Rohanese earl. He wasn't exactly scraping the end of the barrel."

A compliment of a kind—she should mark that down in her diary later. "He was in their eyes. Rohanese earls are nothing to them. If you're not royalty or High Family, you might as well not exist."

He sighed. "Eru love our Gondorian cousins."

"He'll have to. Nobody else in their right mind does."

"Your grandfather, the Giantsbane, I don't think you ever told me his name."

"Haradoc," she said.

"That's a Dunnish name, right?"

"That's right." The 'oc' ending gave it away. "They're quite common in the clans. And it's not because they have any love for Dunland," she said, before he questioned her great-grandparents' patriotism. "They're just honouring their heritage, recognizing where their ancestors came from."

"And where does he fall in the clan succession? Is there any chance of you ever becoming the Giantsbane chieftain, I mean?"

"Absolutely none at all." Which suited her just fine—being the Earl of Hamelmark's daughter was enough of a burden. "I think Brendal's actually closer, so the position would go to him before it ever came to me."

"A bit of a double whammy, though, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"To have both Hamelmark and Giantsbane blood?" He made a sympathetic face. "That's got to be hard to deal with."

So would a foot in the jaw, which is what His Majesty would get if he didn't watch how he spoke. "Could be worse. At least my grandfather's not a Stonehawk."

He snickered. "Don't let Vonnal hear you say that."

"Who's Vonnal?" Given the name, another person of Dunnish descent.

"One of my guards," he said, waving to the Palace. "He's a Stonehawk. From up near the Dunnish border, I think. The two of you would probably get along like a house on fire."

She wasn't so sure about that. "In my experience, when a Stonehawk shows up, something usually ends up on fire."

"I don't think anyone whose family has historically caused as much trouble as yours has should go criticizing other people so much."

"I don't think anyone who had King Thengel for a grandfather should complain about other families causing trouble."

"He wasn't _that_ bad."

"He's the reason we have a Constitution," she said. "If he hadn't pissed off so many people"—including her own horse-riding great-grandfather—"you'd probably still be a King in fact as well as in name."

"I _am_ still a King in fact."

"You know what I mean."

"I do, yes." He raised a conciliatory hand. "And between you and me, I'm perfectly willing to admit, my grandfather wasn't the most enlightened of monarchs."

"What would your grandmother do if she knew you'd said that?"

"Probably order someone to flog me as well."

"Hornburg Square's a pretty big place. Plenty of room to flog both of us at the same time."

"The couple that flays together, stays together, right?"

"They _do_ say sharing is caring."

The door into the Palace squeaked open; a smiling Colwenna appeared. "Your Majesty, My Lady," she said, dipping her head at each of them in turn. "Have you thought about what you would like to eat?"

Eomer's smile was apologetic. "Sorry. We've been so busy talking, we haven't thought about it at all." He turned her way. "What would you like to eat?"

"What are the options?"

"Anything you want." Quickly, he added, "Within reason, of course. I can't guarantee the eggs will be freshly-laid."

Should she tell him, it wasn't the eggs she wanted to be freshly-laid? "Could I have an omelette, please?" she said to Colwenna.

"Of course," said Colwenna, nodding. "Perhaps with some fresh fruit on the side?"

"That sounds lovely, thank you."

"And would you like the meat or the vegetarian filling?"

Her mind dropped into the gutter again. "I'll take the meat filling, please."

Colwenna turned to the King. "And what about you, sir?"

"I'll have the same. Plus, we'll have some toast with butter. And some fresh orange juice as well." He tapped the side of his mug. "Can't really wash an omelette down with coffee."

"Certainly," Colwenna said. "Can I bring you anything else while you're waiting?"

The King raised a prompting brow at her.

"I'm good for now, thank you," Solwen said.

"I'll be back with the food as soon as it's ready." With a final smile, Colwenna departed.

He grabbed the coffee pot to top up their cups. "Where were we?"

Absolutely _not_ talking about how troublesome their families were. "Debating the relative merits of dogs versus cats, I think."

"Hmm, right." He sighed. "I'm still a little concerned. That you're more of a cat person, I mean."

"Should we call Colwenna back, ask her to phone for the car?"

"Not yet, no. It would be a _little_ harsh, I think, to dismiss a young lady, just for having a single flaw."

A single flaw. Bema, if only. "His Majesty is a sympathetic and generous monarch."

"But there are some other things I should check as well. Just to be sure, you understand."

"Of course." She blew on her coffee to cool it. "Go on, then. Ask your next question."

"It's a _really_ serious one."

Was he about to ask what her opinion of current tax policy was? Or whether she was a hawk or dove on defence and military matters? "I'm ready."

He took a breath. "If you had to choose, would you rather watch football, or cricket?"

"Please," she said, humouring his 'serious' question. "Who in their right mind would _ever_ watch cricket?"

"The King of Gondor, for one."

That was depressing; her opinion of Aragorn slipped a little. "Really?"

He nodded. " _Huge_ cricket fan. Pretty good player as well. Should see the way he finger spin bowls."

"I have absolutely no idea what that means." She held up a hand. "And I don't want to know either. If I have to like cricket to date you, we should definitely call it quits right now." She was all for tolerating something you didn't much like because it was something your partner loved, but even she drew the line at cricket.

"You'll be pleased to know, I'm not a huge cricket fan either. I can watch it, if I have to, but I'd much rather watch football instead."

"I would ask what team you support, but I have this horrible feeling you're probably a United fan." Although, if he'd grown up in Aldburg, he might support Athletic instead.

"What's wrong with United?"

"Apart from the useless goalie, you mean?

He winced. "Apart from that, yes."

"Did you watch the Cup Final?"

"I was _at_ it."

"Really?"

He nodded. "I'm the President of the Football Association. I was in the box, sitting with the club owner's wife. When the goalie put that own goal in, I swore so much, I think I made the poor woman cry."

"I wouldn't worry. I'm sure she's heard worse."

"Probably, yes. But I apologized anyway. Wouldn't do for people to think the King suffers from potty mouth."

"Perish the thought."

"Did you watch the match?" he said.

"I certainly did. And I'd like to say I had the same reaction as you, but you've already told me what a terrible liar I am, so I won't waste your time even trying."

He sighed. "I guess that means you're a Rovers fan, then."

That was like guessing water was wet. "I'm from Isendale. Of course I am."

"Blue and white to the bone, right?"

"We all are." Even Nediriel, if only for the most important matches. "When the goalie put that own goal in, I almost laughed myself into a coughing fit." The memory of it still made her grin—a fuck-up of truly _epic_ proportions.

"I'm not sure I can date a woman who likes to make fun of United," he said.

"You shouldn't support a team that's so easy to make fun of, then."

"Right, because I have total control," he retorted. "I can change the lineup with a click of my fingers."

"It could be worse. At least I'm not a Tronvene supporter."

"Tronvene," he sneered. "Fuck those fucking fuckers."

"What was that you just said about the King not having a potty mouth?"

"I reserve the right to change my mind at a moment's notice, without any kind of explanation."

"You _are_ the King." And she didn't disagree with the sentiments he'd expressed. The only way she could hate Tronvene more was if the Camelor family owned the team…

"So, you like cats more than dogs, and you support Rovers over United."

"Yes."

He held up two fingers. "That's two strikes down."

"Better hope your next question's an easy one, then."

He pursed his lips. "How do you feel about coriander?"

"Seriously? This is the make-or-break question? Not something important, like, do I think the poor deserve to be poor, or should we bring the death penalty back? Whether I put _coriander leaves_ on my salad?"

"It's either that, or what way round does the toilet roll go."

As if a King would ever put a toilet roll on. He probably had a special servant to do it for him. "Everyone with half a brain knows the toilet roll goes over, not under. And for the record, I can't stand coriander. I think it tastes like soap."

A warm grin spread on his face. "I don't have to send you to the chopping block, then."

Was that what he did with his former female acquaintances, then? It was certainly an easy way to make sure he never bumped into them ever again. "Probably a good thing," she said. "The chefs will have started cooking our food. We wouldn't want their efforts to go to waste."

"You're very considerate."

She shrugged. "One does one's best."

"I do have one more question, though."

If he asked her what her favourite sexual position was, she would take him inside and show him firsthand. "What's that?"

"How do you feel about ballet?"

"Ballet? Like, the dancing stuff?"

He nodded.

"I'm not a huge fan," she said, going with the tactful answer for once. He might be a company patron, go to ten productions a year.

"You really are a _terrible_ liar," he said.

Yes, she absolutely was. But why was it, she only had trouble lying to him? She could lie to her father and brothers just fine. "Watching it for more than ten minutes makes me want to stick a fork in my eye. Is that better?"

"Much better, yes."

"Good."

"And what about opera? How do you feel about that?"

"I'm better with opera than ballet. I wouldn't ever call myself a fan, but I like some of it."

"Really?" he said, as if she'd just declared she ate raw sewage for breakfast.

"Not all of it," she said. "Not the heavy, pompous, wrist-slashing stuff. But some of the lighter stuff, yes."

"I've never, _ever_ heard one I've liked."

"Well, how many have you heard?"

"Not sure. Five or six?"

Five or six. Out of maybe thirty-thousand. "And which operas were they?"

He snorted. "No idea. I never go to them out of choice. It's only ever a politeness or patronage thing. I blank them out as soon as I'm done."

"Pick the one you remember the most. What was the story?"

He pondered as he sipped on his coffee. "It was about a guy who accidentally kills his girlfriend's dad. And later on, at the end, he gets into a fight with her brother, ends up killing him as well. But before the brother dies, he stabs the girlfriend to death for boning the guy who killed their dad. And the guy's so upset about all the trouble he's caused, he throws himself off a cliff."

It wasn't the neatest synopsis she'd ever heard, but it was enough she could figure out which opera it was. "That's _The Hand of Fate_ ," she said. "The music's good, but the plot's a _tiny_ bit heavy."

"I just wanted the guy to come to the box and kill me as well. Seriously. I've never been in so much mental pain in my life."

"Why were you even there?"

"It was in Minas Tirith, during our last visit. Queen Arwen arranged it for us. I think she thought I would enjoy it."

"I assume you didn't tell her how you really felt?"

"She's the High Queen of Gondor. And I have manners. Of course I didn't."

"Just be glad it was only a Gondorian opera she took you to, and not a Mordorian one."

"I didn't realize Mordorians even made it."

"They're more into pure classical music, orchestral symphonies and such, but they've written a few of them."

"What's it like?"

She tried to think of the best way to describe it. "Put it this way. If you ever want to hold a human sacrifice at the Palace, and you're not sure what the soundtrack should be, ask a Mordorian opera composer to help." All that atonal chanting would set the right mood.

He snickered. "Not warm and happy, then?

"Not even slightly."

"So, you don't like coriander, you don't like ballet, and you like some opera, but not all of it."

"Correct."

"And I already know you're a white wine girl, so that answers another question."

"I drink beer and red wine as well. But white wine's my poison of choice."

"What's your favourite?" he asked. "If you could only drink one wine for the rest of your life, what would it be?"

"I'll tell you, but you're not allowed to judge me."

"No judging, I promise."

"The Calispel Valley silex."

He made a soft oof-ing sound. "That's a _very_ nice wine."

"Why do you think I chose it?"

"And it's only, what, eighty pounds a bottle?"

"You promised you wouldn't judge."

"I'm not judging. I'm _observing_ ," he said. "And it's not as if my taste runs any cheaper."

"What's your favourite wine?"

"You ever tried a red called Skylone Black?"

And he thought her taste was expensive? Skylone Black made Calispel Valley look like something you made in your bath. "I haven't, no, but I know how good it's supposed to be."

"Eowyn bought me a bottle for my thirtieth birthday."

"Good?"

"Better than sex," he declared.

"Okay, but when I used that answer at our first lunch, you told me I must have had a lot of really bad sex."

"Because you used the answer to describe something about your _job_. And I refuse to believe anything about a job can ever be better than sex."

Said the man who'd never done a normal day's work in his life. "But something about a red wine can?"

"Ask Elfhelm if you don't believe me. I shared it with him. Pretty sure he'd say the same thing."

"That reminds me, have you seen His Disastership lately?"

He shook his head. "We text every day, but I haven't seen him in person since last Sunday night."

Elfhelm must have come to the Palace to check in after the crash; it seemed like the kind of thing he would do. "Did I mention, I met his sister as well? At the baby naming party?"

"And what did you make of the inimitable Lady Cenefer?" he asked, lips curling in a slight grin.

Her tactful mode kicked in again. "She's interesting."

"Liar."

Dammit. Why the _fuck_ couldn't she lie to this man? "I spoke to her for all of five minutes, and I wanted to smack her in the face with a chair."

He snickered into his coffee. "Yes, that's what usually happens."

"You've had the same experience, then?"

"She's good at pushing people's buttons," he said. "Eowyn thinks it's because she's a lawyer, but I'm not so sure. She can size you up with a single look, figure out _exactly_ what your weak points are. And when she attacks, she _always_ goes straight for the throat."

"I thought it was me."

He shook his head. "It wasn't. Don't worry."

"Are she and The Princess Royal friends?" Solwen asked. She would watch what she said about Cenefer if they were, no matter what the King thought. Eowyn would be another Colwenna—someone she should try to win over, and she wouldn't do that by saying mean things about her best friend.

"Fuck, no," he scoffed. "They don't hate each other, I wouldn't ever say it's as strong as that, but they definitely rub each other the wrong way."

"Would it be mean of me to say, I suspect it's Lady Cenefer doing most of the rubbing?"

"It would only be mean if it wasn't true." He finished his coffee. "What were you talking to her about that got you so worked up?"

"Politics."

He tutted at her. "You're not supposed to talk politics at social functions. It's _gauche_ , remember? Like talking about money or sex."

She shrugged. "Not in my family, it isn't. And Lady Cenefer didn't seem to have any reservations about it."

The terrace door sprang open again. Colwenna reappeared, carrying a tray laden with various dishes. She set a plate in front of the King—protocol said he was _always_ served first, no matter the rank or sex of the guest—then another plate in front of Solwen. Between them, she placed a rack with various types of toast, a dish with some elegant curls of butter and a large jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice.

Solwen flicked her napkin into her lap. "This looks amazing, thank you," she said. And she wasn't saying that just to be nice—she'd never seen fruit so beautifully carved and arranged. It would almost be a crime to eat it.

"You're very welcome." Colwenna looked to the King. "Can I bring you anything else, sir?"

"Nothing for now, thank you."

"Enjoy your breakfasts." Colwenna checked her watch. "I'll come back at eleven."

Once Colwenna was gone, the King said, "Did you talk to the Earl and Countess of Elgoll at all? At the party, I mean?"

"I didn't really have the chance. They spent most of their time with Elisend's parents." She stabbed a chunk of strawberry and popped it into her mouth. "And the Romengars don't really like me, so I thought it best to stay out of their way."

"I would ask why they don't like you, but I think I can guess."

"It's because of the fights the Earl and my dad have had in the Hall." All of which her dad had won. "But that's his problem, not mine."

"If it's any consolation, he's not on my list of favourite people right now, either."

"Lord Romengar?" She couldn't imagine he meant Lord Elgoll—Elfhelm's dad must be almost an uncle to him.

He picked up his knife to cut his omelette into small pieces. "Because of the petition."

And here was the opening she needed, delivered on a fine china plate. She would still have to be careful, though. "Because he stood up to second it?"

He nodded. "He's on my shit list this week." He grabbed his fork to scoop up one of the omelette pieces. "Just glad I didn't invite him and the Countess to the Midsummer party."

And there was another topic she needed to cover—a safer one than the petition. "That reminds me, can I ask a question about the party?"

He made a pained face. "For the love of Bema, don't ask me for fashion advice again. I have no idea what kind of dress you should wear."

"Not fashion advice. I've bought my dress already, you're fine."

"What, then?"

"I, uh, I was just curious, why did you even invite us? Me and my brother, I mean?"

"Shouldn't I have?"

"It's just, we never get invited to Palace events."

His tone was desert-dry. "I can't for the _life_ of me imagine why."

"Seriously, though. And it's not because the two of us had lunch that Sunday. The invites arrived on the Tuesday. They _must_ have already been in the works."

He put his fork down to pour some orange juice for them. "If I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?"

"Of course."

"It's all my sister's work. She's, uh, how should I put it"—he scooped some more omelette—"she's trying to introduce me to people."

"What kind of people?"

" _Female_ people."

She couldn't help but grin. "Your sister's playing matchmaker for you."

He nodded. "When I told her I'd lifted your Ban, she decided to put your name on the list."

Not entirely illogical, since she wasn't married, and an Earl's daughter. But it made Solwen wonder, who the other guests would be. "So, is the Midsummer party just going to be you and a room full of single, fertile women, then?"

He groaned. "Bema, I hope not."

"And it doesn't explain why she invited my brother."

"He's cover. She figured you'd be more likely to come if we invited him as well."

"She's right. If it had just been me, I would have declined."

His smile was soft. "A little ironic, though, isn't it? She went to all that trouble to invite you, thinking it would be nice for me to meet someone new, and here we are, having our second date?"

"Okay, see, there's another thing. Is this our second date, or our third?"

"Why would it be our third?"

"Does the accidental lunch not count?"

"Hadn't thought about that." He grabbed a piece of toast from the rack. "But I don't think so, no."

"So Tuesday night was our first date."

"Yes."

"And this is our second."

"Yes."

Finally, that was sorted out. "Does The Princess Royal know? That we've been meeting, I mean?"

He shook his head. "She knows I've been meeting someone, but I haven't told her who."

"Am I allowed to ask why?"

"Apart from not wanting to give her a chance to question my taste in women, you mean?"

"Funny." And from what she'd read in the papers, he'd given her plenty of chances this year already…

"I love my sister very much, and I value and respect her opinion—"

"But?"

"But she likes to _know_ things," he said. "And she doesn't always understand there are some things she shouldn't know."

"Like who you're dating."

"Exactly."

It was all so horrifyingly familiar; was this just how families were? "If it's any consolation, I have to deal with that as well."

"Who is it that does it with you?"

"My dad."

"Really?"

She nodded. "He could probably teach The Princess Royal a thing or two about gathering information. _And_ about putting it together."

"Bit of an amateur detective, is he?"

"I swear, I could tell him someone's hair colour, shoe size and favourite ice cream flavour, and he could give me a name within 48 hours."

"That ever bother you much?"

"It has its uses, but when I'm trying to keep a secret from him, absolutely, yes."

He pushed some fruit around his plate. "He's not, uh, he's not trying to _control_ you, is he?"

"Bema, no." But it was strangely sweet that he'd asked. "He's just a nosy bastard who wants to know everything everyone's doing, and can't recognize when something is none of his business."

"Like who you date."

"Like who I date, yes." She tackled some of her omelette, washed it down with some juice. "And I know it's mostly a protective thing. Something he does because he wants to be sure whoever I'm dating isn't a serial killer."

He smiled. "Fathers and their daughters, right?"

Except, it was more like guilt-ridden fathers and motherless daughters of murdered wives. "Right."

"Did you tell him about today?"

"No."

"Any particular reason?"

"Probably for much the same reason you didn't tell The Princess Royal. Because it's a private matter, and because telling him will create all kinds of problems I just don't want to deal with right now."

"Are you worried he would be angry?"

"Why on earth would he be angry?"

"It's just, your family, you've never had what I would call a smooth relationship with the Crown. You've always been a little rebellious around the edges. The whole peacock-killing thing, you know?" He scooped another forkful of food. "I just wondered if maybe he wouldn't want you to date me."

"It's not that, no. Believe it or not, he actually has a lot of respect for the Crown. It's just…" she broke off, not sure how to explain.

"Just what?"

"You've dated other women, right?" Plenty of them, if the reports in the papers were true. "You must know how it goes."

"How what goes?"

Bema, he really wasn't making this easy. "When those women tell other people who they're involved with. And those people start having all kinds of, you know, _stupid_ ideas."

He smiled, finally understanding. "You mean, they all start planning a wedding."

"Exactly."

He spooned some omelette onto his toast and slowly chewed through it. "A couple of months ago, I hosted a formal dinner downstairs, Eowyn invited the daughter of one of the guests. I escorted the daughter for the night." He let out a sigh. "Lovely young woman, perfectly pleasant dinner companion, but I swear, every time her mother looked over at us, she was imagining what our children would look like."

She jabbed her fork at him. " _That's_ what I mean. And I don't think it's what my dad would do, he's far too sensible for that"—or what counted as sensible for him—"but I know he would tiptoe around us in a way he wouldn't if I was dating a normal guy."

"You saying I'm not normal?"

"Well… you're not. Not really. I mean, it's not like we can get in a cab and go to a pub." And Bema, how she wished they could. Even going for a bike ride together would be a five-ring circus event, given how many bodyguards he would have to take with him.

"Very true."

"Telling my dad, it's hassle I just don't need right now. I'd rather we just get to know each other in our own time. Have some fun." And hopefully, a shitload of sex. "We should be talking about the ridiculous stuff, like what kind of tree we would like to be, or what our favourite ice-cream flavour is."

"An oak tree, I think. And mint chocolate chip," he said.

"That's a good choice. I'm a plain vanilla girl myself."

"I highly doubt it."

"Sorry?"

He grinned as he chewed. "You heard me."

"I did. But I'm not entirely sure I appreciated what His Majesty was implying."

"His Majesty was implying there's absolutely nothing about Her Ladyship that could ever be described as vanilla."

"Her Ladyship has no idea what she could ever have done to give His Majesty that impression."

He leaned over the table corner to murmur, "Perhaps when Her Ladyship offered to fuck His Majesty into next week?"

"I _never_ said that," she said, feeling her hackles rising again. Bad enough he could see through her lies, but why did he have to be so good at getting under her skin?

"You told me you wanted me to strip you out of your dress and do something naughty to you."

Her cheeks and ears started to burn. "Did nobody ever tell you, it's considered impolite to repeat something someone said in the heat of an intimate moment?"

He put his fork down, reached out to lay his hand on her knee. "I shouldn't remind you of the part where you said next time, you would do more than just kiss me?" he said, tracing a circle on her leg with his finger.

Heat flared deep in her stomach again. "What did His Majesty have in mind?"

"This is only our second date. We shouldn't rush things."

"We absolutely shouldn't, no. We should do them really slowly."

"That's not what I meant."

"Be more specific, then."

He scraped his chair closer, resting his sling on the arm of her chair, moving his other hand to her thigh. The heat in her stomach erupted. "I really, _really_ want to take you inside and fuck you," he said.

Finally. "For the love of all the Gods, please," she begged. She reached for his belt to undo the buckle. "You have no idea how badly I want you right now."

He caught her hand with his. "But I also think we should take our time."

"Oh, I'm going to take my time, trust me."

"I mean, we shouldn't do _too_ much today."

Meaning, they shouldn't have sex; she wanted to pummel her fists on the table and scream. "If it's a contraception thing, don't worry. I'm as babyproof as a woman can get." Her ovaries might be in flames, but nothing was breaching their walls. Her poor little eggs would just have to fry.

"Not that. But helpful to know."

"Please don't send me home empty-handed again," she pleaded. "I don't think I can take it. You have no idea what condition my lady parts are in."

"I'd guess the same condition as this." He took her hand to place it on his groin; either he had a gun in his pocket, or he was absolutely _delighted_ to see her. She squeezed, eliciting a quiet groan. "You probably shouldn't do that," he said.

She probably shouldn't. But she'd never been terribly good at following rules. She _was_ a Hamelmark, after all. "We don't have to fuck," she said softly. She stroked him again. And not gently—firmly, telling him what she wanted to do. "Her Ladyship could show His Majesty what she can do with her hands." She moved her lips to his ear to nip at his lobe. "Or what she can do with her mouth."

His breath hitched, he slid his hand to the top of her thigh, pushing deep between her legs, brushing the front of her jeans with his thumb. How she wished she was wearing a skirt. "His Majesty thinks he would enjoy that," he said.

She could already hear the 'but' coming…

"But I think we should wait," he said. "I really, _really_ want to fuck you, but I want to do it right."

Reluctantly, she pulled her hand away from his groin, screaming in anguish inside. She moved the hand to his head, running her fingers through his hair, pulling him into a messy kiss. He angled his head, trailing the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips. His breath was heavy on her cheek, and he tasted so good—of strawberries and coffee and orange. He deepened the kiss, groaning, sliding his tongue into her mouth. He raised his hand to cup her breast; the heat rose in her stomach again.

Reluctantly, she pushed him away. "If we're not going to take this any further today, we should probably stop."

"I'm not even allowed to kiss you?"

"It's what the kissing makes me want to do next." Namely, take him down to King Fengel's Folly, get on her knees and blow him until he begged her to stop…

Sighing, he pulled back into his seat. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"Course not. You're allowed to say 'no' as much as I am." She grabbed her fork to stab some melon. "But I'm going to be _super_ -tense for the rest of the day."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to relieve the frustration," he said, showing the coyest of grins.

She bit through the melon. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Right, of course. You're an Earl's daughter. A _Lady_ , no less. You wouldn't ever do that."

"Not even once." She would just have to close her eyes and imagine he was doing it for her.

"And speaking of being an Earl's daughter…"

Bema, what now? "Uh huh?"

"If you father doesn't know you're dating, where does he think you are right now?"

"Oh, I've told him I'm seeing someone, so he knows I'm out on a date." She finished her melon. "I just haven't told him who the date's with."

"Didn't you say he was super nosy?"

"Yes?"

"So, won't he try to find out?"

"He certainly will." She stabbed a piece of pineapple next. "But I've put a cover story in place."

"By which you mean you're lying to him."

She huffed. "My way sounds better."

"What have you told him?"

She couldn't tell him about the Brendal thing. Not yet—not until she'd spoken to Brendal himself. If he didn't approve of what she was doing, she would have to 'break up' with him, find another way to throw her dad off the scent. "He thinks I'm dating someone else."

"Who?"

"That's not something you need to concern yourself with."

A gleam appeared in his eye. "Why? Would it be someone I know?"

It made her nervous, how quickly he zeroed in on these things. "If it's all the same, I'd rather not talk about it," she said.

"Of course. Sorry. Didn't mean to pry."

"It's fine," she said, showing a forgiving smile. "It's just, living with my dad can be hard."

"Okay, but why the hell are you even living with him? You're twenty-eight. Can't you afford to find your own place? I know Edoras is expensive, but it can't be _that_ expensive, surely?"

"I can afford it just fine." Even in Minas Tirith, she'd been able to rent a half-decent place. "But it's a custom in our family, for the kids to live at home until they get married."

"But that means your family always knows what you're doing."

And therein lay the source of her troubles. "It does, yes."

"If I were you, I would move out," he declared.

Said the man who'd lived surrounded by servants since he was twelve. "I have actually thought about it," she said. "Maybe once I'm working again. The house is great if you work near the Hill, but not so good if you work downtown."

"And that's where all the money jobs are."

"Exactly." She scooped up the last of her omelette, washed it down with some juice. "It's where Elisend works. She has her own place. I could always move in with her for a while."

"She in a money job as well?"

"Sort of. She's in economics."

He winced. "Economics, Bema. I had to take a course at school, it just about made me want to hang myself."

"Elisend says it's just fancy fortune telling. But she likes it. And it seems to pay well."

"It'll have to."

"Sorry?" she said, slightly more sharply than she'd intended.

He had the decency to look embarrassed. "Let's be honest, here. We both know the Romengars aren't rich."

Her hackles smoothed down again. "They aren't, no." But they would still be rich compared to regular people. "But that's hardly Elisend's fault."

"All her father's, I think." He finished the last of his fruit and set his cutlery on his plate. "Word about town is, the Romengars used to be pretty rich, but the Earl lost most of the money. Bad investments. That kind of thing."

She hadn't heard that, but it seemed like the kind of idiot thing Elisend's father would do. She wondered what the 'word about town' about her own family was. "It wouldn't surprise me. He doesn't strike me as the kind of man who knows how to make a good decision." And not just about money, as his involvement in the petition proved.

His telepathy kicked in again. "You think that's why he's seconding my cousin's petition?"

"I do, yes." She picked a blueberry from her plate. "We talked about it last week, Elisend and me. She thinks her dad believes the petition's going to be a good thing."

"But you don't think it is?"

"I didn't last Sunday."

"What about now?" he asked, alarmed.

She grabbed the coffee pot to refill her mug. "I still think it's a fairly long shot, but the Countess gave a _very_ good speech."

He sighed. "You watched it on the news, I guess."

Time to 'fess up to what she'd done with some of her week. "I, uh, I actually went to see her present it."

"In person? At the Hall?"

She nodded, smiling as she remembered what else had happened that day. "When you called me, to arrange today, I was in the lobby, talking to the Countess of Darkfald." After the head-to-head with her least favourite earl.

"Was that why you took so long to answer?"

"I had to find somewhere quiet to talk. Didn't want anyone listening in."

He swirled his orange juice in his glass. "I, um, I watched the Countess's speech on the news."

"What did you think?"

"It was interesting. I won't deny, she spoke really well. But so did other people." Smiling, he gestured at her. "I thought your father made some really good points."

"Yes, he did, didn't he?"

He set his napkin on his plate. "Can I assume that means he doesn't approve of what my cousin is doing?" he asked in a cautious tone.

"You certainly can." She smiled, trying to put him at ease. "I know everyone in the Hall thinks we're a bunch of traitorous troublemakers"—as Cenefer Elgoll had so recently proved—"but we're actually not. Whatever views my dad has of the Crown, he applies them more at the abstract level, to the establishment as a whole. He has absolutely no problem with you on an individual level. He thinks you're doing a great job." Or words to that effect.

"That's good to know," he said, still guarded. He took another sip of his juice. "I, uh"—he sighed—"I don't suppose you've heard any rumours about the rebuttal?"

He was being so cautious, tiptoeing around instead of just saying what he wanted to say. She understood why, but it was still a little annoying. If he relaxed, spoke more openly on the matter, she might be able to find the right moment to give him the piece of paper in her back pocket. A little prodding might help. "Your Majesty, it's probably improper of me to say this, but is there any chance we can speak more plainly?"

"I'm not supposed to speak plainly. I'm supposed to stay out of politics, remember?"

"I know that. But I give you my word, whatever you say to me here will never be repeated elsewhere. And it's ridiculous to think you should stay out of this. Thenwis is trying to steal your job. How the hell can people expect you _not_ to have an opinion?"

"You promise you won't repeat what I say?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "I swear on my grandmother's grave, whatever you say, I won't _ever_ repeat."

His shoulders relaxed; she could almost hear him opening up. "I'd like to know what's going to happen with the rebuttal," he said. "The Countess gave a good enough speech that I'm worried some people in the Hall I could otherwise rely on to do the right thing might be persuaded to follow her lead."

"Like Jothren Romengar, you mean."

He massaged the side of his head. "Man's a fucking moron," he muttered. "Always has been, always will be." He leaned over the table. "You know the two Countesses are sisters, right? Elfhelm and Elisend's mothers?"

"I knew that, yes."

"Did you also know, about ten years ago, Jothren went to Tommen Elgoll, asked him to bail him out of a debt, and that Tommen gave him the money he needed, but instead of using it to settle the debt, Jothren put it into another deal, lost it all over again?"

"I didn't, no." But it wasn't hard to believe. "I can't imagine that went down well."

"Caused a _massive_ fight. The two families didn't talk to each other for years. They only made up when Gamulf's daughter was born."

That might explain why Elisend hadn't introduced her to Elfhelm. A shiver ran up her neck as she made another connection. "That might be one of the reasons why he's seconding the petition."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe Jothren's not just trying to bolster his own political standing. You're close to the Elgolls, right?"

"Very. Elfhelm's been my best friend since I was twelve. Tommen's almost an uncle to me."

"So, if the petition succeeds, and you get kicked off the throne, the Elgolls lose the prestige that comes with being friends with the King." She shrugged. "Maybe Jothren's trying to get back at his brother-in-law as well."

He sat back, clearly troubled. "I hadn't thought of that."

"If it's any consolation, I only just thought of it myself."

"At least I know what Keveleok's motivations are. She's been pretty transparent."

"Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned, right?"

"Bema forbid I should be allowed to choose my own wife," he muttered.

If she was going to show him the email, he should know who else was involved—who was pushing Keveleok's buttons. "Can I tell you something else about the petition? Something you might not like?"

"Of course."

"It's not just Keveleok and Romengar behind it," she said, forcing her voice to stay calm. "There's someone else."

He let out a deep sigh. "Is this where you tell me the Earl of Camelor's running it all behind the scenes?"

"You already knew?"

"I did, yes." He raised a refusing hand. "And don't ask me how. I'm supposed to stay out of politics, but that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to have secrets."

She wondered how he'd found out. From his security people, perhaps? They monitored activity on the web for potential threats to the Crown. Had they somehow intercepted the Camelor-Keveleok chatter? All by perfectly legal means, of course—not like her with her pilfered USB stick.

"And never mind how _I_ knew," he said. "How the fuck did _you_ find out?"

This was the moment, to share what she and her dad had uncovered. But how to word it, and how much to share. She didn't want to put Henris at risk. Or the King himself, for that matter. If she didn't tell him about the USB stick, he couldn't be questioned about it later if the shit hit the fan. But she had to involve someone else—he wouldn't believe she'd figured it all out on her own. Fortunately, there was an easy victim, and one she knew wouldn't mind. "My dad told me," she said. "And before you ask, I don't know how he found out."

"Can't say I'm entirely surprised." He finished his orange juice. "If there's one person in the Hall of Lords who would figure out who's really involved, it's him."

"He's going to be involved in the rebuttal," she said, remembering Colwenna's advice. "He hadn't planned to, but when he found out Camelor was involved, he decided he had to step in."

"When is he going to speak?"

"Second, I think, after Erella Darkfald. She's going to argue the legal angle. Cover what kind of precedent it would set, if we started retroactively changing laws."

"What angle is your dad going to take?"

"No idea. But from what he's told me so far, I think it's going to be something creative."

"What the fuck does 'creative' mean?"

"I don't know." And so far, she'd been too scared to ask.

"Not sure if I should be reassured or worried."

"Whenever my dad gets involved in something like this, I find 'both' is the safest approach."

Groaning, he laid his head in his hand. "This whole thing is going to give me a nervous breakdown, isn't it?"

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't think about it too much. All you need to know is, my dad's pissed as hell about what Keveleok and Camelor are doing, and he's not going to let them win without a good fight."

He took her hand to kiss her it. "I'm glad to hear that."

Now was the perfect time to tell him. Her mouth went dry, her heart started to pound. "But there's something else you need to see," she said, pulling her hand away, clamping it into a fist to stop it from shaking. "About Camelor's involvement in the petition, I mean."

"What's that?"

"Before I show you, you have to promise not to ask me where I got it." Which seemed fair, given he'd just refused to reveal his own sources.

"Where you got what?"

"I won't say more until you promise."

"If you did something really illegal, it might be better if you didn't show me," he warned. "I can't risk the damage it would do to the Crown if the press or the police found out."

He made a fair point. "What if I only did something _mildly_ illegal?"

"That's like saying someone is mildly pregnant. It doesn't work that way. It's either illegal, or it isn't."

"Like speeding," she said, going for something she knew he would sympathize with. "It's illegal, but not in a way that bothers most people." Except Keveleok and her 'responsibility' crusade, of course…

"I could maybe live with that, yes," he said.

"So, you promise not to ask more questions?"

He gave a curt nod. "I promise."

She reached into her back pocket.

"What the hell's that?" he said as she brought the piece of paper out.

"This," she said, carefully unfolding the sheet, "is a printout of an email the Countess of Keveleok sent to the Earl of Camelor back at the end of May."

"Okay, and how—" he broke off, recalling his promise. "Sorry. No asking. Right."

She handed the piece of paper to him. He took it from her, almost reluctant, as if it was radioactive. Frowning, he scanned the short text. She could see when realization set in—his frown deepened and his jaw clenched.

"You understand what that's saying?" she said.

He nodded stiffly, took a deep breath. "It's saying, the Earl of Camelor has a man in the Palace."

"Not just anyone. Not someone in the mail room or kitchen. Someone reasonably close to you."

"Where did you get this?" he asked in a flat voice.

"I can't tell you." He started to speak—she raised a hand to cut him off. "It's for your own good. And you don't need to know where it came from. All you need to know is what's in it."

He shook the piece of paper at her. "This is more than just mildly illegal, isn't it?"

She couldn't speak, so simply nodded.

"Do you have _any idea_ , how much trouble I would be in, if anyone knew I had this?"

"Which is why I brought it to you myself, and why I'm only giving you a printout, instead of an electronic copy."

"Unbelievable," he said, jaw muscles dancing again.

He was furious with her; this wasn't going well. "I'm sorry. I just wanted you to know what was going on." She pulled her cardigan shut, suddenly feeling cold and exposed. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. If you want me to leave, I'll leave."

He frowned, confused. "Why the fuck would I want you to leave?"

"You seem angry."

"I _am_ angry." Softer, he added, "But not at you. You're just the messenger, and I know you meant well. It's just…" He finished his coffee, looking as if he wished there was whiskey in it.

"I've just opened another can of worms for you."

"A _huge_ one."

"What will you do with it now?" she said.

He scanned the piece of paper again, then folded it up and put it in his breast pocket. "Let me worry about that from here."

"But you will do something with it?"

"Absolutely." His expression turned hard. "I'm gonna find the inside man, kick them over the goddamn cliff," he said, gesturing to the end of the terrace. "Teach the traitorous bastard a lesson."

"I hope this didn't just ruin our date."

"A tiny bit, yes." He leaned in to give her the briefest of kisses. "But I'm glad you told me. Thank you."

The tension flooded away. "It was just because I was worried. And I didn't think this was the type of thing I should ask Elfhelm or Brendal to pass along for me. I thought I should do this myself."

Smirking, he shook his head.

"What's so funny?"

"You are."

"Sorry?"

He flapped his hand. "I've spent the last few weeks telling myself, the stories about your family can't possibly all be true. That they must all be either exaggerated, or urban myths."

"But?"

"But now I'm beginning to think they're all perfectly true."

She grinned. "You ever visit our Isendale house, I'll show you the wedding cloak my grandmother made from the peacock feathers."

"She made a _wedding cloak_ with them?"

She nodded. "Wore it when she married my grandfather. And Godith wore it when she married my dad." But not her mum or Nediriel—tradition reserved a wedding cloak for Rohan-born brides. "It's beautiful. Almost a work of art."

He sat back, raising his hand in a surrendering motion. "I have no words. Truly."

It wasn't how she'd hoped to render him speechless today, but it would just have to do…

Colwenna paused at the door to check her watch—eleven o'clock precisely.

She steeled herself and pushed through the door. To her relief, the King and his guest were both at the table, both fully dressed, and not involved in any kind of improper behaviour. As far as she could see, neither of them had so much as a hair out of place. Could it possibly be, they'd spent the whole morning just eating and talking, and hadn't felt the need to go for a 'tour' of His Majesty's rooms?"

Wonders never ceased…

The King smiled as he saw her. But his smile seemed a little bit off, as if something was weighing on him. Had the date with Lady Solwen gone bad? Was this why nothing improper had happened—he'd decided halfway through the meal that he wasn't really interested in her?

She would be disappointed if he had. She hadn't taken to Lady Solwen at first, but the young woman was growing on her. She was still a little too bold around the edges, but she seemed to have the King's interests at heart, and to genuinely care about him. And unlike numerous other young ladies, to not be interested in him just for his money and rank.

She'd had such high hopes for where this might go. She hoped she wasn't about to see those hopes dashed…

Colwenna's timing was as precise as always. "How was your breakfast?" she said, smiling as she approached.

"Excellent, thank you," Eomer said. He turned to his guest. "Did you enjoy yours?" Her plate was clean, so he assumed the answer was 'yes'.

Solwen smiled, agreeing. "It was wonderful," she said to Colwenna. "Please say thank you to the chefs for me."

"I certainly will," Colwenna said, returning the smile. "Can I bring either of you anything else?"

"Nothing for me," Eomer said. He turned to Solwen again. "I'd planned to be free for another half hour, but would you mind if we wrapped this up now? I have an engagement at noon, so I have to change and get ready, and there's something I need to do before then." He tapped his breast pocket, silently letting her know what he meant.

"Not at all, no." She dropped her napkin onto her plate. "I know how busy you are. I'll let you get on with your day."

He turned to Colwenna. "Can you ask"—what was the driver's name again—"can you ask Yelisan to bring the car round in ten minutes?" That would give them time to wrap up.

"Of course," Colwenna said. "I'll call the garage right now." She disappeared back into the Palace.

"I'm not trying to kick you out," Eomer said when Colwenna was gone. "I promise."

"It's okay. You don't have to explain." She pointed at his pocket. "I just handed you a live grenade. You need to figure out how to disarm it as soon as you can."

Except, he couldn't deal with the damn thing himself. But who the hell should he take it to? Who could he trust, with something like this? Eowyn was his first thought—he would show it to her at her breakfast tomorrow.

"Will I see you again?" she said, quietly, nervously, as if she was half-convinced he was going to say 'no'.

He leaned in to give her the lightest of kisses. "Of course you will." He remembered the 'booking' he'd already made with Colwenna. "I was going to ask you, if you're free for drinks again on Thursday night. Say, at eight-thirty this time?"

"That sounds perfect." She grinned. "Assuming the Hall of Lords hasn't imploded, of course."

Thursday, yes—the day of the rebuttal. "If it goes well, we can celebrate with something nice." And maybe this time, not just with wine. He was _desperate_ to take her to bed; by Thursday, they would have waited enough.

"And if it doesn't go well?"

"We'll drink to drown our sorrows instead."

She pushed her chair back, wiping some crumbs from her jeans as she stood. "I had a really nice time," she said.

"So did I," he said, standing himself.

"I, um, I hope you get that sorted out," she said, pointing at his pocket again. "Fingers crossed it won't be too much of a problem."

A nice idea, but it didn't seem likely. The Earl of Camelor wasn't the kind of man who paid a spy to find out what kind of toilet paper he used, or whether he put salt on his food. The inside man would be someone fairly close, someone fairly important. "I'll give you an update on Thursday." The issue probably wouldn't be over by then; he suspected the spy would be hard to flush out.

She swallowed. "Can I, uh—" she waved from her face to his.

"Can you what?" he asked in his most innocent tone.

"Can I kiss you again?"

He sighed. "If you must." She opened her mouth to retort; he silenced her with his lips. He kept the kiss light, not wanting to trigger her urges again. Or his own, for that matter. Not when he had to change and be ready to leave at twelve—he didn't have time to deal with 'tension relief' as well.

Colwenna reappeared. "The car's on its way, sir. I'll escort Lady Solwen back to the garage."

"I'll see you on Thursday?" Solwen said.

"You certainly will." He made a mental note to check how many bottles of the Calispel Valley Silex they had in the cellar. Whether they celebrated or drowned their sorrows, they should do it with a nice wine.

She hesitated, then pushed up to give him a parting kiss on the cheek. "I'm looking forward to it," she said.

"Me too."

She turned to follow Colwenna. As she reached the door, he called out, "Lady Solwen?"

"Yes?"

"Thursday night."

"What about it?"

He flashed his brows. "Any chance you can wear a nice dress?"

With a knowing smile, she nodded. "I'm sure I'll be able to find something suitably feminine, yes."

Just what he wanted to hear. Tight trousers were such a pain in the arse to remove…

Movement out his office window—Solly, striding down the drive.

A few seconds later, the front door opened and closed. He would just pop out to say hello, find out if she'd enjoyed her date. He didn't think that counted as prying.

Duncan stepped out of his office, finding his daughter still in the hall. "How was your breakfast date?" he said, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

She smiled. "Was good."

"You go somewhere nice?"

She hesitated, then said, "We actually just went to his place."

His fatherly hackles kicked in slightly. He reminded himself it was none of his business, what his adult daughter did with her time—whether she'd gone to Brendal's just to have breakfast with him or to do something else. "I assume that means he cooks?" he said. Solwen certainly didn’t. One of the few ways she took after her mum—Bema rest her departed soul, but Nemmie had never been able to do a damn thing with food.

"He does, yes." She smiled. "Rather well, as it happens. He made the omelettes, I made the toast."

Toast, she could probably manage. And it made sense, that Brendal could cook, given how long he'd lived on his own. "And, um, what about that other matter?" he said. "Did you have a chance to deal with that yet?"

She nodded. "I took care of that as well. I gave it to that person I know who knows the King."

He couldn't do it. He couldn't do all this underhand stuff. Not with his wee baby girl. "You don't have to hide things from me anymore," he said. "About who you're dating, I mean."

"Sorry?"

"I know you're dating Brendal," he blurted. "And I'm okay with it. You don't have to hide what you're doing."

Jaw twitching, she took a step back. "How did you find out?" she said. "Did Erland tell you?"

He shook his head. "It wasn't Erland. It's like I said last week. When you've been dealing with people as long as I have, you get to be pretty good at sussing stuff out."

"You told me you weren't going to try to suss it out."

"I know I did." He stepped towards her, not liking the distance she'd just put between them. "And I wasn't trying to pry, I swear. It was just something Calantha said, Brendal's mum, when I bumped into her on Friday."

"I see," she said, but the tone of her voice told him she didn't.

"I'm not angry," he said. "It's totally fine."

Her posture softened a bit. "You're not bothered that he's older than me? Or, that he's a distant cousin? Or, that he's only a bike mechanic?"

"Not at all." He moved in to lay a hand on her shoulder. "If it's what you want, and he makes you happy, that's all that matters to me." He gave the shoulder a squeeze. "It's all that's _ever_ mattered to me, sweet pea."

She blew out a breath. "I'm glad you're okay with it. You know I don't like keeping things from you."

"So, it was Brendal you gave the email to, then?"

She nodded. "I sealed it in an envelope, asked him to take it straight to the King. He's heading to the Palace right now."

"Good girl. Best not to drag Brendal into this if we don't have to." Bad enough she was involved—in hindsight, he should have left her out of the matter as well, found another way to contact the King.

"That's what I thought, yes." She checked her watch, gestured upstairs. "I'm going to get changed. The weather's so nice, I thought I might take the bike for a spin."

"You do that. We'll talk more tonight."

She took herself up the stairs, he headed back to his office to work on his speech. He felt much better, having everything out in the open. And it would be easier now, to ask Brendal about that new bike. When might Solly have him over, he wondered?

Maybe he could help with that. It was the Summer Solstice next week—they were having the usual family dinner, with Godith's two lads added on top.

Should he invite Brendal to join them as well?

Solwen pulled out her phone as she jogged up the stairs.

She hadn't intended to 'confess' about her boyfriend just yet—her dad had sprung that on her, caught her off-guard. But it made arranging her cover story all the more crucial.

She brought up Brendal's number to start a new text.

 _Can I meet you today or tomorrow?_ she sent. _Something funky has come up, I think I need your help._

A few seconds later, Brendal replied. _Busy today, tomorrow after work?_

_What time?_

_Six okay?_

_Perfect. Where do you want to meet?_

_The Golden Lion? Buy me a pint?_

_Works for me._

_What is it you need my help with?_

_Wee bit complicated_ , she sent. _Better if I tell you in person._

_See you tomorrow, then._


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer shows the email to Eowyn, Godhild gets some bad news, Duncan shares a secret with Erella, Solwen has a proposal for Brendal.

**Monday June 15, 2020**

Eomer knocked on the morning room door, didn't wait, pushed it open to let himself in.

The dining table was set for two. But he wasn't Eowyn's guest today—Halmund had told him she was having a working breakfast with one of her aides. But not for another twenty-five minutes—plenty of time to show her the email and ask her for help.

He walked around the table, heading for the sitting room at the other side, found her there, perched on the couch, brushing her hair as she watched the eight o'clock news. The peonies were in a vase on the sideboard behind her, just coming into full bloom. They were a lovely colour—a delicate shade of reddish-pink. Or pinkish-red; he wasn't quite sure.

"Good morning," he said.

She showed him a smile as radiant as the sun. "Good morning yourself." She put the brush down, then, with a few quick movements of her fingers, wove her hair into an elegant braid. As always, it was amazing to watch—a sleight-of-hand with golden locks instead of coins. He remembered their mother being a whizz with her braids. And their father as well, for that matter.

"You remember when you were little, you used to sit down in front of dad, make him do your braids for you?" he said.

Still smiling, she nodded. "And I used to complain he never put them in straight? I would pull them out, make him start all over again?" She pushed up from the couch, coming to give him a quick peck on the check. "How's the arm?" she said, lightly resting her hand on his sling. "Giving you any pain?"

"It's mostly fine. Doesn't hurt much, just an occasional twinge, more of an inconvenience, really." Especially for his morning swim—he could feel he was losing his fitness, so couldn't wait to get back in the pool. "I'm seeing the doc again on Thursday. Hoping he'll tell me I can throw the sling out."

"Two weeks, remember?" she warned, giving him an affectionate, sisterly glare. "No taking it off before Sunday night."

"Yes, mother," he muttered. He really wanted to throw it away before his date with Solwen on Thursday. It wouldn't be an insurmountable problem if he had to keep it on, but it would definitely complicate matters. He might have to let Solwen take charge.

"So, what is it you want today?" she said, picking some lint from the front of his jacket.

"What, the King can't come say 'hello' to his baby sister on Monday morning?"

"He certainly can. But when the King comes to his baby sister instead of asking his baby sister to go to him, either he's done something wrong and needs to beg for forgiveness, or he wants something from her. It was the former last week, so the odds are, it's the latter today."

"Well, aren't we a smartarse this morning?"

She poked him. "Every morning, I think you'll find." She went to a shelf to grab her watch and fasten it on. "Go on, then. Whatever it is, spit it out."

"I need your help," he said, thinking it better to get straight to the point.

"Not help with a woman, I hope."

"Wynna, _please_ ," he said, giving her a disparaging look. "When have I _ever_ needed your help with a woman?" She might as well offer to tell him how to piss standing up. Or, to explain the offside rule to him.

She half-rolled her eyes. "What kind of help is it, then?"

"I need your advice on a security matter."

"Sorry?"

"You remember a couple of weeks ago, when Algrin told us his people hadn't been able to follow the Earl of Camelor to his meeting with Thenwis, and you wondered if we had a spy in the Palace?"

"You're not telling me I was right?" she asked, eyes going wide in alarm.

"I wish I wasn't, but it turns out you were." He drew the piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and held it out to her. "Here. Read this."

"What is?" she said, tentatively reaching for it.

"It's a printout of an email the Countess of Keveleok sent to the Earl of Camelor at the end of May."

She snatched her hand away as if she'd been burned. "I'm sorry, it's _what_?"

"You heard me."

"Why do you have a printout of one of the Countess of Keveleok's emails? she asked. "Did she give it to you?"

"Course she didn't." He held out the printout again. " Read it. Please. You'll understand."

"Eomer, is this illegal?" she said, eyeing the sheet as if she was scared it would bite her.

"A little bit, yes."

"There's no such thing as a little bit illegal. It's like saying someone is a little bit dead."

What did it mean, that he'd resorted to pregnancy to make that point, but she'd resorted to death? Any therapist worth their salt would likely have a field day with them. And he couldn't use Solwen's speeding ticket defense. Eowyn might be a terror behind the wheel, but in a thoroughly legal way—she never, _ever_ broke the speed limit. "Fair point, but the illegality of the situation is overshadowed by our need to know." He pushed the printout at her again. "Read it, _please_ ," he pleaded.

Scowling, she snatched it from him, unfolded it to scan through the text. In the space of a second, her expression turned from slightly annoyed to ready to rip someone in two. Was that how he'd looked, when Solwen had given the email to him? If it was, no wonder she'd offered to leave.

"Am I reading this right?" Eowyn asked, aghast. "Camelor has a man in the Palace?"

He nodded. "That's what I took from it as well."

Her hand came up to cover her mouth. "This is horrific."

"Didn't exactly leave me feeling warm and giddy, either."

She checked the time, went to close her sitting room door, came back to wield the printout at him. "Where did you get this?" she said.

"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry."

"Eomer, this is a printout of a private, confidential email. An email on which you were neither the sender nor the receiver. Having it isn't just a little bit illegal. It's _extremely_ illegal."

Softly, he said, "I know it is, Wynna."

Eyes blazing, she shook the paper at him. "Do you have _any_ idea, how much trouble you would be in if anyone knew you had this? How much damage it would do to the Crown?"

"It would be bad, I know."

She scanned the email again. "How many people know you have it?" she asked in a less angry tone. She was past the outraged stage now, going into information analysis mode.

"Just one. Just the person who gave it to me."

"And have they told anyone else? That you have it, I mean?"

He shook his head. "They know how much trouble it would cause if it ever came out. And that they would be in all kinds of hot water as well."

"You trust them?"

"One hundred percent." And he meant that, with every ounce of his soul. For all he still didn't know her well, he somehow knew Solwen would never betray him. Which was ironic, really, given what family she was from—a family with a history of impolitely telling the Crown to go fornicate with itself.

"This person, did they tell you where they got it?"

"They told me somebody else gave it to them." Not a lie, just lacking in detail. "And that they trust that other person to stay quiet as much as I trust them."

Eowyn did what she always did when faced with a troubling problem—she started to pace up and down. It wasn't for nothing she wore through her carpets quicker than anyone else in the Palace. They'd only replaced her rug last year and it was already starting to fade in the middle.

She paused, looking at the paper again. "Inside man," she murmured.

"Sorry?"

"The email refers to an inside man," she repeated. "Is that just a figure of speech, or is it a literal clue?"

"You mean, is the spy a man instead of a woman?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "No idea. I didn't take anything literal from it. I just read it as a figure of speech."

The heavy pacing resumed. "You had any thoughts about who it might be?" she said.

"Nothing specific. Only in the general sense."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, it has to be someone fairly close. It won't be someone who works in the kitchen, or the guy who brings in the mail."

"And someone fairly close to _you_ ," she added. "I don't think the Earl of Camelor wants to know what _I'm_ doing."

She lived such a blameless life, she didn't do anything worth spying on. "I would say so, yes."

"We can eliminate a few people, of course," she said. "Colwenna, Algrin, Fastmer. Probably Bregdan as well." She sounded utterly sure of herself. "It certainly won't be any of them."

This was the part that bothered him most. Trying not to sound accusing, he asked, "Are you sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure," she said, turning to shoot a frown at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You don't think any of them would sell me out if someone offered them a big enough bribe?"

She came to stand in front of him, looking him straight in the eye. "Eomer, there's not a chance in hell any of those people are Camelor's inside man. It's so preposterous, even saying it out loud is almost insulting. Especially about Colwenna. She's known you since you were born, been like a surrogate mother to us. And she dislikes Camelor as much as you do. She wouldn't turn a fire hose on him if he was burning."

"What about Algrin and Fastmer?" he asked. "A couple of months ago, I pissed Fastmer off so much I think he wanted to punch me. Colwenna talked him out of resigning, but what if he's decided to secretly give me the middle finger? And build up a nice pension pot at the same time?" Bema knew the Palace wages weren't the best. They were good—they had to be to cover the capital's living costs—but nowhere near as good as what someone with Fastmer's skills could earn in the private sector instead.

"You didn't tell me about that. What on earth did you do that made him want to punch you?"

Dammit. She hadn't known about the whole 'speeding up the Starkhorn Pass' thing. "It's not important," he said, waving her off. "The important thing is, it may have given Fastmer a reason to want to betray me."

She shook her head. "Not a chance. You drive him nuts, everyone in the Palace knows _that_ , but he's as loyal to you as Colwenna is. He would rather cut off his own arm than betray you." Another shake. "No. It's absolutely unthinkable. And Algrin as well. His integrity is _everything_ to him. He would never sully it for something as vulgar as money." She wrinkled her nose. "Especially not Camelor's money."

"So, if it's not any of them, who the hell is it?"

"That's what we need to figure out." She handed the piece of paper back. "You need to show this to Algrin and Fastmer. They're your two main security people. They'll know how to dig out the mole. It's what they're trained for, what they do. Especially Algrin. He'll be able to look at phone call records. _And_ at financial records. Whoever the inside man is, I doubt they're doing it for free. Algrin will be able to see if anyone has been receiving payments that can't be explained."

He took the printout from her, folded it up and put it back in his pocket. "What about Colwenna?" he said. "Do you think I should tell her? She's not a security person, and knowing might just make her worry."

"It might do, yes. But she's the head of your Household staff. She knows better than anyone else in the Palace who you interact with on a day-to-day basis, who comes onto the residence floor, who has the access to see what you do." She shrugged. "Except for Fenbrand, of course. He might know a bit more. Especially on the work side."

Fenbrand. Hmm. He was as 'inside' as any man in the Palace could be…

"What's that puckered look for?" she said.

"Fenbrand," he said, wondering what his 'puckered' look was. "Do you think I should tell him as well?"

She fell silent, thinking. "Not him, no," she eventually said. "I don't think it's him," she quickly added, "but I don't trust him _quite_ as much as I trust Algrin or Fastmer." She sighed. "You chose Algrin and Fastmer yourself, but you inherited Fenbrand from Uncle Ted. And there's always been something just a _little_ too oily about him."

It wasn't just him who felt that way, then. "I'll talk to them as soon as I can. Round them up, tell them all at the same time."

"Let me know how it goes?"

"I will." He checked the time; eighty-twenty-five, her guests would be here soon. "I'll let you get to your breakfast."

"Eomer?" she called out as he reached the door.

"What?"

"Be careful, please," she pleaded. "With that email printout, I mean. Keep it somewhere safe, and don't show it to anyone unless you have to."

"I'll be the soul of discretion, I promise."

She let out a light snort. "That'll be a first."

Godhild was a woman on a mission today.

She was going to find out who the King's new girlfriend was if it was the last thing she did.

She'd had some decent luck so far. She'd overheard a bunch of the chefs chatting about what the weekend shift had covered. On Sunday morning, the King had apparently ordered a breakfast for two. There had been no official guests that day, and Sorvana had already told her nobody had come through the front door. So, unless the King was eating for two, he'd had breakfast with someone, and that someone had gone in through the back route.

Two visits in less than a week. For His Majesty, that counted as keen.

She rounded a corner; Lady Luck was with her again. Who was standing at the cash machine but Yelisan—the driver she'd spoken to last week? "Hey, there," Godhild said, smiling as she strolled up.

"Hey," said Yelisan, smiling back. She punched some keys on the pad. "How are things in the royal bodyguard world?"

"The usual," Godhild said. "Lots of standing at doors, coming and going, getting in and out of cars."

"Did you cover the thing on Saturday night? I saw the piece on the news, it looked pretty busy."

The Royal Academy dinner. It _had_ been busy—enough to put the usually laid-back Vonnal on edge—but she'd enjoyed doing something away from the Palace for once. "I covered that, yes. Lots of people, so we had to keep our eyes open, but it was good. A nice change from watching the security feeds or standing outside the King's door." She waved to Yelisan. "What about you? Were you working at the weekend?"

The drawer on the bank machine opened, dispensing a small bundle of cash. "I did a half-shift yesterday morning," Yelisan said, grabbing the cash to shove it into her purse. "Wasn't too bad."

A half shift. Perhaps to cover picking someone up, waiting for them while they ate breakfast then driving them home?"

"Oh? And who did you drive?" Godhild asked, thinking maybe boldness would look less suspicious.

Yelisan's smile turned into a frown. "Nobody you'd know," she said. She shoved her purse in her pocket. "I have to go," she said, gesturing down the hall. "I'll catch up with you later." With a stiff nod, she strode away.

So much for that. But she'd done what she could. She would just have to try with someone else.

Her phone buzzed against her hip. Godhild drew it out of her pocket and swiped to unlock the screen. The message was an email from Fastmer—the email he'd told her on Thursday he was going to send out, with the assignments for the Midsummer break. She scrolled down until she found her own name; when she saw what group she was in, her blood started to boil. He was sending her to Aldburg with The Princess Royal, not to Isendale with the King.

And then, to make matters worse, she saw who _was_ in the group for the March.

Mother-fucking piece of shit…

She marched along the hall, heading for the annexe level which housed all the security staff. She took the steps three at a time, barging past one of Algrin's people on the way down. She made her way to Fastmer's office, where she knocked impatiently on the door.

"Come in," Fastmer called out.

She pushed the door in. He was alone, sitting behind his desk, working through a messy bundle of papers. His green jacket was hanging over the back of his chair. She couldn't remember ever seeing him in just his formal white shirt—it was almost as shocking as seeing him fully unclothed.

He smiled as he saw her. Or, what passed for a smile when it was on Fastmer's face—he wasn't the warmest and most charming of people. "Godhild, good morning," he said.

"Could I have a minute of your time, please, sir?" she said, skipping over the greetings. She didn't feel like being polite; she just wanted to know what the _fuck_ he thought he was doing.

Fastmer sighed. "By any chance, is this about the Midsummer assignments?"

"It is, sir, yes." She closed the door over. "I'm a little disappointed, sir," she said. "I'd hoped to be assigned to the March. I specifically asked to be placed with the King."

"I know you did. I was the one you asked, remember?" Fastmer rose from his desk, grabbing his jacket to pull it on and button it up. "Like I said last week, it's not just about what you want. There are other issues at play here as well."

"Like seniority," she said.

He nodded. "Not just that, but it's one of the things I need to consider, yes."

"Okay, but you're sending Nedris to the March," she said, respect for his position forgotten, feeling her temper beginning to fray. "And she's not as senior as me."

"By a _week_ , Lieutenant." The frosty tone was a warning, as was the use of her rank.

She bit down on her temper, decided to switch to a 'wounded' approach. "It's the principle, sir. I've been here longer than Nedris. I should have a shot at the better assignment."

"Lieutenant, if you want the better assignment"—Fastmer's tone was clipped and curt—"you should be the better guard."

She jerked back as if she'd been punched. "Sorry?"

He went to his weapons locker to punch in his code. "I didn't ignore your request just because of the seniority issue," he said, opening the locker to pull out his holster and gun. "It was also because I'm not entirely sure I can trust you around the King."

Oh, Gods. Had Fastmer figured her out? Did he know about the 'arrangement' she'd made? But if he had, why the hell was she still in the building, instead of being clamped into cuffs and marched out the door? He must mean something else. "I'd appreciate an explanation, sir," she said, in the calmest voice she could find. "I've always tried to be good at my job. If I'm doing something wrong that's ruled me out of the March assignment, I'd like to know."

"You're good at your job on a technical and procedural level," he said. "I've never had any problem there." He clipped his holster onto his belt and fastened the strap around his thigh. "It's your people skills that need some work."

That was rich, coming from Mister Charisma. "In what way?"

"You're too divisive. You drive your co-workers apart instead of bringing them together. When you decide you don't like someone else on the team, you try to make other people take sides, to not like that person as well."

"I can't help it if there are people on the team I don't get on with, sir. It's just how life is."

"You're allowed to not get on with people," he said. "Bema knows there are plenty of people in this building I don't get on with myself." Pretty much all of them, Godhild was sure. "But you're not allowed to wage some stupid, childish, 'them or me' campaign against them, to the point where they feel as if they're being bullied out of their job," he added.

Ten quid said the complainer was Nedris. They'd never gotten along, from the very first day they'd worked together. "I wasn't aware I was doing that."

"You are. And it causes tension none of us need. Especially the King. There's not a chance in hell I'm putting you with him over Midsummer. I don't need you winding up people right under his nose. I need him to see a capable, unified team of guards who can swallow whatever differences they have and just get on with their jobs." He went to his desk to power down his computer. "Which is why I'm putting you with The Princess Royal. And not just for the Midsummer break. For at least the rest of the year as well."

Panic flared in her chest. She needed to stay on the King's team. She wouldn't be able to see anything interesting if she didn't. "Captain, I—"

"If you're going to complain I'm being unfair, don't bother." He grabbed the papers from his desk and turned to shove them in a tray behind him. "You need to go away and think about how fair you've been to other team members in turn."

"Are you going to fire me?" she asked.

He shook his head. "It's not quite at that stage yet." He came to stand in front of her, scanning her face. It was a horrible feeling—as if he was dissecting her soul. "I know you can do good work," he said. "Get your shit together, stop the petty bullying crap, I'll move you up to the main squad again. Keep causing me trouble, and yes, you'll be out the front door. Is that understood?"

There was only one thing she could say. "Yes, sir, it is."

He nodded curtly. "Get to it, then."

She found him out on the terrace again, soaking up the late morning sun, tie off, shirt unbuttoned, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand.

"You need to give those bloody things up," Erella said, striding to stand beside him. "They're literally killing you."

"I know they are," Duncan said. "And I'm going to give them up, don't worry. Just let me get to Midsummer first." He stubbed the cigarette out on the wall, turned to throw it into the trash. "A whole month up at the house, fresh air, good food, good wine, no work to worry about, I should be able to kick them just fine."

She wasn't holding her breath on that. "Nice job on the Finance bill, by the way," she said, turning to lean against the railing as well. "You gave a really nice speech." He always did—one of the reasons she'd asked him to help with Thursday's rebuttal.

"Never, _ever_ make me explain quantitative easing to a roomful of non-money people _ever_ again."

"If it helps, I personally thought you explained it really well." Even she had understood what he'd said, and what she knew about monetary strategies, she could write on the back of a stamp. Legal stuff was more her jam.

"Just glad the Bill's finally passed. After how long it took us to bring the damn thing up for a vote."

Mostly because of the number of people in both the House and the Hall who'd tried to talk the Bill out. "And now it's finally done, can I buy you a celebratory lunch?"

"Thanks, but I think I'm going to head home." He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. "Do some more work on my speech for Thursday."

"How's it coming along?"

"Pretty good. I know the two angles I'm going to address. I just need to flesh them out."

"Can I ask what they are?" She wanted to know for herself, but Tommen was also on her case about it. He'd been happy to let her lead the charge, but when she'd told him Duncan was going to speak after her, his mood had turned _distinctly_ unpleasant. Which was understandable. Tommen knew as well as she did that when Duncan got _too_ inventive, the end results caused all kinds of grief. The trick was to make him stay between the lines—prod him enough to do something good, but not so much he gave everyone an aneurysm.

"First, I'm going to address the cost issue."

She winced. "Could be tricky. You know Keveleok will say we can't put a price on doing the right thing."

"She will. But I have a counter-argument that'll shut her up."

"Which is?"

He flashed that shit-stirring Hamelmark grin of his—the one she'd once found rather alluring, but that now made her innards churn in suspicion. "You'll just have to wait and find out," he said.

"Duncan…"

He held up a hand. "I'm not going to do anything outrageous, I promise. I'm just going to use something from her own voting record. Something she won't be able to fight without making a total arse of herself."

Which, knowing him, was probably what he wanted. Not that she could blame him. Leonilla Keveleok wasn't one of her favourite people right now, either. "What's your other point?"

"I'm going to argue the fairness angle. Persuade everyone that making Thenwis our Queen wouldn't really be fair at all."

"How?"

"Not really sure yet. Still working it through in my head."

He was lying like a goddamn rug. These Hamelmarks—him, his mother, his daughter—they were all scheming, devious lying pricks. Why had she ever decided bringing him in was a good idea? " _Horseshit_ ," she said. "You know _exactly_ what points you're going to make. You just don't want to tell me, because you know they're going to piss me off."

The stupid grin came out again; she wanted to wipe it away with her foot. "I couldn't possibly comment," he said.

"I should never have asked you. I should have stuck to my original plan, let Tommen speak after me instead."

"Tommen doesn't have anything good to speak after you with," he said. "He'll just stand up and talk about what a nice young man King Eomer is. He won't convince anyone of anything, except how close his family is to the Crown. And if he's too self-righteous about it, he'll just piss people off." He pointed at her. "You know that as well as I do. It's why you came to me in the first place. Because you know I can do a better job."

One of these days, she was going to beat this man to death with her shoe. And not a nice, soft, comfortable shoe—a shoe with a six inch, dagger-style heel. "You better not fuck this up," she warned, wielding a finger back at him. "You make a mess of my rebuttal, I'll serve your balls to my dogs for dinner." With a sprinkling of sage and parsley on top.

He tutted. " _Language_ , Erella. You're a mother of four impressionable sons. What on earth would your children think, if they heard you speaking like that?"

Her four 'impressionable sons' would take a limb each and hold him down for her. "I mean it, Duncan. If you try to use this rebuttal to trigger some kind of social revolt, I will personally ask the Custodian to hold a vote to kick you out of the Hall. _Permanently_. Not just for a few days."

He shook his head. "You'd never get rid of me. You like me too much."

She did, but that wasn't the point. "Don't push your luck."

"It'll be fine," he said in a more soothing tone, as if she was a badly-spooked horse. "I'm not going to trigger any kind of revolt, I promise." He stifled another yawn.

"Something giving you sleepless nights again?" Or someone, maybe—his wife, she hoped.

"Just the research for my speech. I'm sleeping just fine. It's more about how many hours I've been able to get."

He was probably working every night until the small hours. He was a night owl to his core, just as she was an early bird to hers. One of the many reasons why it would never have worked between them. Along with the fact her father had despised Marchers with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns. "Not the kids giving you trouble, then?"

"Not this week, no." With mischievous eyes, he leaned in to whisper, "And speaking of kids, I found out who Solly's boyfriend is."

"Did she come out and tell you?"

"Not exactly, no."

"Which means you badgered her until she gave up."

"I never badger people."

Her sons should know how lucky they were, to have someone sane like her as a parent, instead of a manipulative bastard like this. "Who is it, then? The boyfriend, I mean? Am I even allowed to know?"

"One of my distant Giantsbane cousins. Name's Brendal. Really nice guy. We've known him for years."

That didn't sound like something Solly should be reluctant to share. Unless… "Is there something wrong with him?"

"Not at all, no. He's a wee bit older than her, but not so much I'm concerned. And like I said, he's a good man. He won't lay a finger on her."

She knew how much that mattered to him, for reasons any feeling person would understand. "You were wrong about one of your predictions, though," she pointed out.

"Which one was that?"

"You thought whoever Solly was dating worked at the Meduseld Palace," She tried not to gloat, but it wasn't every day you got to tell the Earl of Hamelmark he was wrong.

He grinned in that unbearable way that told her no, he absolutely wasn't. "Here's the thing. He _does_ work at the Meduseld Palace. He's a motorcycle mechanic. He takes care of all the King's bikes. So, I was right all along."

A motorcycle mechanic from one of the clans. Yes, that sounded like the kind of man who would turn Solly's head. Bema save the poor girl. From both her taste in men, _and_ her father's interfering.

"You'll be happy, then?" she said. "Or relieved, at least? Now you know what's it all about?"

"Very." His eyes took on a troubling gleam again. "But I was thinking, I might invite him over for Solstice. Doesn't seem fair to let him spend the holiday on his own."

Fair. Of course. That was _exactly_ what his plan was about. "Have you checked if that's what Solly wants?"

"Course I haven't. Where would be the fun in that?"

Oh, dear. Solly was going to need more than Bema's intervention, it seemed…

Brendal put the drinks on the table—a sleeve of Umber Amber for her and a pint of Hornburg Red for him.

Solwen wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Don't know how you can drink that stuff," she said, pointing at his pint. "I swear it tastes like liquid puke."

As opposed to solid puke, he assumed. "I think that's more about your last experience with it than anything to do with the beer," he said, remembering her 'horking her lungs up' story. "Anything that makes you puke tastes like puke when you have it again. Just a basic law of drinking."

"Still." She took a sip of her beer, eyeing his with suspicion, as if she was waiting for it to burst into flames.

He took a sip of the Red and put his glass down. "So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

She took a deep breath. "Okay, you know how, when I came in, and you asked me how my weekend was, and I told you it was fine?"

"Uh huh?"

"It was actually more than just fine."

"How so?"

Her smile was soft and shy—a strangely endearing thing to see on a woman so open and bold. "I, um, I saw you-know-who again," she whispered. "I had breakfast with him yesterday morning." Her smile widened. " _And_ I'm having drinks with him on Thursday night."

He made a victory fist in his head. This was fucking _fantastic_ news. Vonnal was going to be absolutely delighted. "Does that mean you're officially dating him, then?" By Thursday, she would have seen him four times. He wasn't an expert by any means, but that sounded like dating to him.

"We are, yes. But it's early days yet," she said. "We're just having fun and getting to know each other. So, don't go picking out wedding flowers or china patterns, please."

As if he would ever do that. And the scandalmonger in him wondered just how much 'fun' they were having. "That's fantastic news. Honestly. I'm chuffed to bits for you." And for His Majesty as well. It was about time the man settled down and found a nice girl. If the nice girl in question was one of Brendal's distant relations, and a woman Brendal had personally introduced him to, so much the better.

"You can't tell anyone yet," she warned. "You have to keep it to yourself for now."

"My lips are sealed." And not just because the King would have his head (and his job) if he talked. He liked her too much to rat her out. If he even knew who to rat her out to. "So, why is it you need my help?" he said.

She sighed. "Aye. About that." She took another sip of her beer. "The thing is, I haven't told anyone in my family what's going on."

"Understandable," he said. He never told his parents anything about his love life, either, much to his mother's disgust. Not that he ever had much of a love life to tell them about, but still.

"Mostly because I'm a really private person, and I don't think there's anything to tell them about just yet. Not when we've only had a few dates. But also because I know how everyone will react, if I tell them who he is."

She was being really careful, not to say the King's title or name. He would have to watch what he said himself. "You mean, they'd all start planning a wedding."

"I don't think they would go that far, but they definitely wouldn't be normal it."

"Would be hard to blame them. It's not the kind of thing most people could be normal about."

"True."

She was making a lot of interesting points, but he still couldn't see where he came in. "So, why is it you need my help?" he repeated.

"The problem is, my family knows I'm dating someone. Not who, but the fact there _is_ a who."

Eventually, she would get to the point. "Uh huh?"

"Which wouldn't be an issue, except for the fact my dad's a nosy prick."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Thinks it's his mission in life to know every secret on the whole planet. Especially when they're about who his children are dating."

"Surprises me. He's always seemed like a pretty laid-back guy." Not that he was an expert by any means—he couldn't have spoken to her dad more than two or three times in his whole life. And not for quite a few years now.

"He _is_ a pretty laid-back guy. He's just a pretty laid-back guy who wants to know what everyone's doing." She sighed. "And it's a protective thing as well."

"You're his daughter. He's your father. Mine was the same with Merri when she was young. I think it comes with the territory."

"Aye, but it's about what happened to my mother as well. About how she died," she quietly added. "I know he worries the same thing will happen to me."

"Was a terrible thing," he said, struggling to find the right words. He didn't remember her mother's name, but he certainly remembered how she had died—it had been all over the papers for weeks. "I can understand why it's made him like that. If I was him, I'd probably feel the same way."

"I know that. And I'm mostly pretty good with it. But sometimes, it's a pain in the arse."

"Like, when you're trying to hide the fact you're dating the K—" He caught himself just in time. "The fact you're dating," he settled for saying.

"Exactly."

"Can't see why you should worry. I know your dad's a really smart guy, but you've both been really discreet, only told people who need to know, and none of those people are going to talk. And you're only meeting him at his place. So, unless your dad has tapped your phone, or is using a stealth drone to tail you, I don't see how it's a thing."

"You say that, but you have no idea how sneaky my father is. _He_ phoned me at home last Friday morning." She paused, making sure he understood who 'he' was. "On Sunday afternoon, my dad asked me if I was dating someone who worked at the Meduseld Palace." She sat back, raising her brows, nodding as if to say 'take that'. " _That's_ what my father can do."

That wasn't just sneaky—that would put most people in the National Intelligence Service to shame. Who the fuck did her dad know, that he could figure out information like that? "What did you do?"

"The only thing I could think of in the moment. I threw a tantrum at him and told him to butt the fuck out."

He would have paid good money to see that go down. "And did he? Butt out, I mean?"

She turned her hand back and forth. "More or less, yes."

"So, it's all good now, then."

She made a pained face. "Not really, no."

"Sorry?"

"It _was_ all good. Until he bumped into your mother when he was up in Isendale on Friday."

Bema save him; what the fuck had his mum blabbed about now? Hopefully not that he was going to the March for Midsummer—he'd warned her it was a need-to-know thing for security reasons. "Why was that a problem?"

"Because she reminded my dad you work for the King."

"Uh huh?"

"At the Meduseld Palace."

"Aye?"

"The _Meduseld Palace_ , Brendal," she said. "The place where my dad thinks my new boyfriend works." She stared at him, brows climbing again, as if she was expecting him to come to some epic, earth-shaking conclusion.

"Sorry, lass, but I'm not getting your point. Whatever you're trying to say, you're going to have to just come out and say it."

"My dad thinks you're my boyfriend," she thundered.

"Sorry?"

"He thinks the person I'm dating is you. He put all the pieces together, and decided _you_ were the person who ticked all the boxes."

He started to laugh, realized she wasn't kidding, the laugh died a strangled death on his lips. "That's the _stupidest_ thing I've ever heard," he said. "I mean, not that I wouldn't date you, of course, I'm sure you're a very nice girl." She glared at him, making him mentally wince. "But you're just a friend. I never thought of you that way." Apart from admiring her tits. Which he still thought were nice. But if she was dating the King, they were absolutely off-limits now. Best not to ever think about them again. Best to act as if she didn't have any. No tits. And no legs, either.

" _You_ know that, _I_ know that, but my dad apparently doesn't know that." She pressed her palms into her eyes. "His imagination has run away with him."

"Could be worse. At least this problem's easy to solve." He was surprised she hadn't solved it already, just told her dad he had it all wrong.

"Yeah, except, I kind of don't really want to solve it?"

"Sorry?"

"I don't want to tell my dad he's wrong," she explained. "I _want_ him to go on thinking we're dating."

"Why?"

"Because if I tell him you're not my boyfriend, he'll try to figure out who is."

"And you don't want that to happen." He realized now, what she wanted him to do. The truth reared up in front of him, giggling at him, baring its teeth. "You want me to play along with it, don't you? You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend so you can keep your dad off your back?"

"Please?" she pleaded, leaning forward over the table. "It would be a huge help for us."

"Absolutely not."

"I won't make it awkward for you, I promise. I won't call you 'honey', or try to hug you, or expect you to hold my hand, or do any of that weird, clingy stuff."

Interesting, that she thought holding someone's hand counted as weird and clingy…

A shiver of fear ran up his spine as he realized who else besides her father must think they were dating. "Okay, but we have a much bigger problem."

"What's that?"

"If your father thinks we're dating, that means your grandfather does as well."

"Probably, yes. Why's that an issue?"

"Because dating is more than just holding hands." She frowned—his time to say something more clearly. "Your grandfather will think I'm _having sex_ with you."

She bit down on a giggle. "Right enough, aye."

Her grandfather would think they were _fucking_. Haradoc the Hardass. One of maybe three people in the whole Giantsbane clan the clan chief was terrified of. The man who'd earned three medals for valour in The Third Southern War, who'd scared a platoon of teenage Harad soldiers into surrendering to him without firing a shot. The man who'd once saved a wee girl from being attacked by a mountain lion by punching the fucking thing in the mouth. _That_ man now believed Brendal was doing naughty things to and with his granddaughter.

He stood up so quickly his chair tipped over onto the floor.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Solwen said.

"Home. To pack." He checked the time as he reached for his jacket. "If I leave now, I can make it to Gondor by ten."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, stop being such a bloody drama queen, and sit the fuck down. My grandfather's not going to lay a finger on you."

"He'll lay his whole bloody hand on me," Brendal shot back. "Both of them. At very high speed."

She reached over to grab his shirt. "Sit down and stop talking shite. I promise, nothing's going to happen to you. Haradoc _likes_ you. He won't mind if he thinks we're dating. He'll probably be happy about it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Reluctantly, he reclaimed his seat. "Okay, but if I come home from work one night, and someone's left a horse's head at my door, I'm blaming you."

"Relax. People don't do that anymore. It makes far too much of a mess."

He gulped his pint, trying to calm his nerves, still shitting himself at the thought of pissing Haradoc off. "So, what will I have to do?" he said. "To pretend to be your boyfriend, I mean?" The less, the better—her not being into holding hands might be a good thing after all.

"Pretty much nothing at all. It's not as if you and my dad are going to see a lot of each other," she said. "I've never been someone who brings my boyfriends home for dinner. I've always been pretty private that way." She shrugged. "It'll be me who has to do all the pretending, not you."

"And how long would this be for?"

"Just a couple of months. I've already decided, if things are still going well by the end of August, I'll tell a few more people then. Including my dad."

That was reasonable, he supposed. The urge to panic kicked in again. "What about you-know-who?" he whispered. "Are you going to tell him as well?"

"Not right now. But at some point, probably, yes. I'm not comfortable lying to him."

"But you're comfortable lying to your _dad_?"

"That's different," she said. "This whole thing wouldn't have happened if he'd just minded his own bloody business, so he deserves to be lied to."

Sadly, there was some logic in that. He downed another gulp of his beer, feeling a headache coming on. He should never have answered her text. Actually, never mind her text. He should never have offered to fix her bike, vintage Shadowfax or not. He should have pretended she had the wrong number and just hung up on her. "My dad's right about you lot, you know."

"What lot?"

"You Hamelmarks," he explained. "He told me years ago, you're all a bunch of shit-stirring bastards, and that if I had any sense, I would give you all a wide berth."

She grinned. "Bit late for that, now, isn't it?"

"Next time you need your bike fixed, you can take it to someone else instead."

"Brendal, it's just a tiny, wee white lie to a couple of people, none of whom you'll ever have to see face to face before it's all over and done."

"What if I see them face to face when we're up in the March?"

"Oh, so you're going with him over Midsummer, then?"

"I certainly am. Hadn't planned to, was going to stay here for the whole break, but you know how it is. What the big man wants, the big man gets."

"Brendal, nobody who's anybody stays in Edoras over Midsummer." She leaned back, swirling her drink. "And you never know. You might have fun."

"Not now, I bloody well won't. I'm going to spend the whole month worrying I'll bump into your dad every time I turn round." Or even worse, into Haradoc instead. He liked Haradoc, had always admired him. And now he wouldn't be able to look the man in the eye. He was going to need all that free beer the King had promised…

" _Highly_ unlikely. You're going to be close, but not that close."

"We're going to be just across the lake from each other. That's more than close enough for me."

"I guess that means he told you where he's going to be staying?"

"On the lake in Seigoth, he said. I don't know which house, but I've been to the lake, so I know they're all nice." He thought of another problem. "You'll have to be careful. If you come to visit, I mean. You'll have to do it without your dad finding out." Which would be easy enough if she came by road, but not so much if she came by boat. She might have to buy some underwater swimming equipment. Actually, no—one of the guards would probably shoot her.

"But that's where our cover story comes in. My dad will just think I'm going to the house to see you." She grinned that grin of hers again. "So, I won't have to be careful at all."

"You've really thought about this, haven't you?"

"When I tackle a problem, I like to examine it from all possible angles, yes."

He was sure he would think of more issues himself—he just couldn't think of them right now. Actually, no, he could think of one. "So, what's in it for me?" he said.

"What did you have in mind?"

He could probably ask for something good. Not money—his parents had raised him better than that—but he might let her buy him another TV, or that new pair of Amrothian boots he'd had his eye on. Except, that didn't seem much classier than asking for cash.

Hmm.

He had an idea. And then another. And then two more. One of which he'd sort of already had but never told her about. How impertinent would it be, to ask for all four right now? Only way one to find out…

"Four things," he said, showing the fingers of his left hand.

" _Four_?" she exclaimed. "Are you asking for something nice in return, or giving me a shopping list?"

"Two easy things now, two harder things later."

"How much later?"

"At least a year from now, I'd say. And maybe never at all."

She gave him a wary look. "I'm listening."

"A half-case of Dunharrow Reserve." It was scarily expensive stuff; as rich as she was, a full case seemed a _little_ too much.

"The standard blend, or the Oak Cask finish?"

He hadn't thought about that. "How about half and half?"

She gave a quick nod. "Three bottles of each. I'll have it delivered to you this week. What else?"

"Second one might be tougher." But not something she could really refuse, without undoing her whole cover story. 'When we're up in the March, and people I know there find out I'm home, they're going to invite me to a whole bunch of things."

Her smile was sly. "Uh huh?"

"Some of which my ex-wife might be invited to as well. She still lives in Isendale, still talks to all our old friends."

Sighing, she put down her beer. "Let me guess. You want me to go to all of those parties with you."

He nodded. "You play girlfriend for me, I play boyfriend for you. You don't get hassle from your dad, I don't get hassle from my mum."

"The hell is your mum hassling you about?"

This was something he didn't really want to discuss. But needs must, and all that. "She doesn't understand why Ragnill and I broke up. She keeps dropping hints about how nice it would be if we got back together."

She snorted. "She might want to check with Ragnill on that."

"Don't get me fucking started."

She swirled her pint. "They _do_ say one good turn deserves another, and I don't see how I could refuse, given what I'm asking of you." She raised a warning finger. "No funny business, though, okay? Pretending to be your girlfriend doesn't mean you get to make dirty comments about me, or slap me on the arse."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Not given who she was really dating. He wasn't sure what scared him more—Haradoc thinking he was having sex with her, or the King thinking he was hitting on her. The latter, probably. At least Haradoc didn't have guards with guns. And wasn't theoretically allowed to have people killed.

"What are the other two things?"

"They're _way_ in the future. Might never happen at all."

"You said that. But we should agree on them now, just in case they ever come up."

He took a mouthful of beer for courage. "If this works out, and you, um, you marry our mutual friend—"

"Stop," she ordered, showing a hand palm-out. "We just had our second date. Stop trying to cross the bridge before it's even been designed, never mind built."

"But if it _does_ get built…"

She sighed. "Go on, then. What the fuck is it you want?"

"A front row seat at the wedding. And not a seat way off at the side. A seat right in the fucking middle."

"I'm sure that could be arranged. In theory, of course."

"Of course." He pushed on before he lost his courage. "And I want the Shadowfax," he blurted.

" _Excuse_ me?" she said, nose wrinkling in shock.

"I want the 'fax," he repeated. "If you marry my boss, the day after the wedding, you give me your bike."

"You think I'm letting _anyone_ so much as touch my bike, you can fuck off all the way to fuck, fuck off a bit more, and fuck off from where you end up all over again."

Her language was _terrible_ when she was mad. If her relationship with the King did ever get to the serious stage, she would really need to work on acting like more of a lady, stop dropping f-bombs all over the place. "If you marry him, you won't need the 'fax. You'll be far too fucking busy"—he realized he was speaking too loud, and dropping too many f-bombs himself—"you'll be far too busy being the Queen," he leaned forward to whisper.

"Why don't you just ask for my firstborn fucking child while you're at it?" she hissed.

"Keep your kid. I just want your bike."

She slowly took a breath in, just as slowly blew it back out. "How about, you have the bike, but you keep it at the um, the _house_ , and I'm allowed to ride it whenever I want?"

"What if I want to leave? Or the boss fires me? Or he decides he doesn't want to ride anymore? What happens then?"

"Why don't we just get to the end of Midsummer first? Worry about the rest of it later?"

"Fair enough."

"But other than that, I accept all your terms," she said, as if they'd been waging a war, and now they were discussing a truce.

"It's a deal, then?"

She held out her hand. "It certainly is."


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer shows the email to some trusted people, Colwenna has some advice for Eomer, Algrin and Fastmer talk, Algrin has some instructions for Solwen, Vonnal and Brendal talk, Eomer finally cuts a loose thread.

**Tuesday June 16, 2020**

Fastmer was the last to arrive, stepping rushing the office door just as the Lasgalene clock on the shelf sounded its final delicate chime. "Good morning, Your Majesty," he said, nodding to Algrin and Colwenna, sitting patiently in their chairs. "Apologies for keeping everyone waiting. One of my guards called in sick at the last minute. I was arranging for someone to cover."

"All good," Eomer said, waving Fastmer to the third chair. "You're right on time. Have a seat, please."

"Who is it that's sick?" Colwenna said as Fastmer sat. "And nothing serious, I hope."

"Godhild," Fastmer said. "And not serious at all, no. A migraine, she said. She'll be fine tomorrow, just needs to rest for the day." The way he said it—polite on top, but with a hint of unpleasantness underneath—made Eomer think there was more to the issue than met the eye. But it was Fastmer's problem to deal with, not his.

"Thank you for coming," Eomer said, going to push his office door over. He pressed the button on the wall to activate all the internal security measures. For what they were about to discuss, privacy was an absolute must. "Something troubling has come up, and as the three people I trust most in the Palace, I need your advice."

"Your Majesty, before we go any further, if it's that serious, should Her Royal Highness not be here as well?" Colwenna said, then hastily added, "Unless it's about her, of course."

He went to perch on the front of his desk. "It's not about Eowyn, no. But what I'm about to tell you, I've told her already. She agrees I need to discuss it with the three of you next."

"It sounds serious," Fastmer said.

Eomer nodded. "Very." He pulled the email printout out of his pocket, but made no immediate move to unfold it. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to get right to the point." He looked at each of them in turn. "The Earl of Camelor has a spy in the Palace."

"Dear Gods," Colwenna said, hand flying up to her throat. Fastmer cursed under his breath, Algrin looked as if he'd just stuck his finger in a wall socket.

"I'm sorry, sir, could you say that again?" Algrin said.

"Someone in the Palace is working for the Earl of Camelor."

"How do you know that?" Colwenna asked. "And is it something you know for sure? It's not just another silly rumour doing the rounds?"

"It's not just another rumour, no," Eomer said. "It's something I know for sure." Almost straight from the horse's mouth.

"Do you have any evidence to back you up, sir? Something to prove what you're claiming is true?" Algrin said, a stickler for the procedures, as always.

"I certainly do." He unfolded the piece of paper to show it to them. "This is my proof right here."

"What's that?" Fastmer asked.

"It's a printout of an email the Countess of Keveleok sent to the Earl of Camelor a few weeks ago. "Algrin opened his mouth to object, as Eomer had expected he would. He raised a silencing hand. "Don't say anything just yet. I know you're alarmed, and that you're going to ask questions, but let me read the email to you first, please."

Sighing, Algrin gave a reluctant nod. "Yes, sir. Of course."

"The email is about Thenwis Colafell's petition." Algrin still said nothing, but his scowl deepened. "I'll only read you the relevant line." Eomer cleared his throat and turned the printout over to read it. "I don't know about you, Rogen," he recited, "but I would love to see the look on His Majesty's face when he reads what you've written. Do you think _your inside man_ could secretly take some photos of him for us?" He lowered the printout, waiting for them to realize what words he'd stressed.

Fastmer was first, sharply drawing breath through his teeth. "Your Inside man. You're right. Camelor has a spy in the Palace."

"Your Majesty, could I look at that, please?" said Algrin, gesturing at the sheet of paper. His voice was perfectly calm, but Eomer could hear the strained anger underneath. "I'd like to read it myself."

"Of course." Eomer handed the paper to him, watched as Algrin scanned the text. The emotions that flitted across his face—anger, disbelief, disgust. "This is outrageous," Algrin said, shaking the printout at him. "What on _earth_ does the Earl of Camelor think he's doing?"

"He's thinks he's spying on the King," Colwenna said drily. She reached out to take the sheet of paper from Algrin, reading the message herself. Sighing, she shook her head. "The man has guts, I'll give him that." She handed the email to Fastmer, who quickly scanned it in turn. His only reaction was a slight twitch of his cheek. Expressionless, Fastmer handed the printout back to Eomer.

"So, you all know what the problem is," Eomer said. "You've all seen the evidence firsthand. You know I'm not overreacting or making things up. Someone in the Palace, someone relatively close to me, I'll add, is working for the Earl of Camelor." He gathered their gazes to him. "What I need now, is to figure out who."

Algrin was the first to speak. "Your Majesty, before we discuss this any further, you know I have to ask, how did that email come to be in your possession?"

"Why on earth is that important?" Colwenna asked.

"It's important, because the King is not the person who either wrote or received the email," Algrin stiffly said. "By possessing it, he's breaking the law. _Several_ laws, in fact."

"So is the spy," Fastmer flatly pointed out.

Algrin came back again. "That's not the point. It doesn't matter what someone else is doing." He made a fist on the arm of his chair. "His Majesty _cannot_ and should not break the law himself. If the press found out he had that email, the damage to his reputation would be severe."

"There's a simple solution for that," Eomer said. He held the printout up, text out. "You've all read this, right?"

Three heads nodded.

"You've all seen the header," he said, tapping the top of the page. "Who sent it, and when, and who received it. And you all completely understand what the 'inside man' phrase means? There's no confusion at all on that point?"

"We do, sir, yes," Colwenna said. "And none at all, no."

Eomer turned to grab a cigarette lighter—one he'd borrowed specifically for today, knowing this was what he intended to do. He flicked it and held the flame to the edge of the paper. The sheet went up in a matter of seconds; he turned to drop the still-burning corner into the ashtray on his desk, watched as it quietly sputtered out.

"Count yourself lucky that wasn't enough to trigger the fire alarms and sprinklers," Colwenna said.

He hadn't thought about that. Oh, well. No harm done in the end. "So, now the physical evidence is gone, and nobody can prove I ever had it in my possession, let's just talk about what the email revealed."

Fastmer gestured at the smoking remains of the page. "I assume that means you only had a hard copy. That you don't have a soft copy as well."

"Correct."

"I really wish you hadn't done that, sir," Algrin quietly said. "I know why you did it, and yes, it solves one of your problems, but it doesn't eradicate my other concern. Namely, that you came to be in possession of confidential information by what I suspect are not _entirely_ legal means."

Eomer shrugged. "The physical evidence is gone. And I don't think any of you are going to call the cops on me."

"What about how you received the printout in the first place?" Algrin said. "If someone gave it to you, that person could report you to the police."

"You'll be pleased to know, the person who gave it to me is someone I completely trust," Eomer said, repeating what he'd said to his sister. "They won't call the cops on me either."

"Are you sure?" Colwenna asked.

"Absolutely, yes."

"Back to business, then," Fastmer said, perfectly calm. "Someone in the Palace is spying for the Earl of Camelor. Maybe for political or ideological reasons—"

"But more likely for cash," Colwenna concluded.

Eomer nodded, agreeing. "Paying people is Camelor's style." Or, maybe 'buying people' was better. "Either on a monthly retainer, or on a per item basis."

"We need to start looking at people's financial records," Fastmer said. "Find out who in the Palace has been receiving money that can't be explained."

"I'm going to stop you right there," Algrin said, raising a hand. Three heads turned his way. "It's not as simple as that," he explained. "I can't go looking at people's bank accounts however and whenever I please. I need to obtain a warrant first. And to obtain a warrant, I need to apply to a judge, persuade them there's reasonable grounds. On a _per person_ basis. And even if I could look at someone's bank account, where on earth do you think I should start? We have almost three hundred staff. Do you have any idea, how long it would take?"

Colwenna, the voice of reason and logic, took over. "How do you suggest we proceed?"

"I'd like to start with one-to-one interviews first. To meet everyone in person, ask them a few simple questions, see how they react." Algrin looked to Eomer. "Most people aren't good liars, sir. They don't know how to hide they've done something wrong when someone explicitly asks them about the thing they've done wrong."

"Especially civilians," Fastmer chipped in. "Someone with military or intelligence training, maybe, but not regular people." He smirked. "They usually give it up in three minutes flat."

Why Fastmer was aware of that, Eomer didn't want to know…

"It's still an awful lot of people," Colwenna said. "Even if you only meet with someone for fifteen minutes, it'll take you forever to talk to everyone on staff."

"Seventy-five hours," Eomer added.

Three heads turned on him now.

"Fifteen times three hundred, divided by sixty," he said. "Just simple arithmetic, really." Not as simple for them as it was for him, based on their astonished expressions. He shrugged. "Not like I just solved the Uniformity Conjecture. Relax."

"We don't have to talk to everyone," Algrin said. "Only the people who have access to His Majesty on a regular basis. The people who would see or hear things that are worth reporting to other people."

Eomer nodded. "That's what Eowyn said. She thinks the spy will be someone close to me. And that's a _much_ smaller number than three hundred." He hadn't realized the Palace had that many people in it. What the _hell_ did all of them do? Was that why the vending machine on the admin floor never had his favourite chocolate bar in it? Because it was three hundred other people's favourite chocolate bar as well?

"Still quite a few, when you think about it," Colwenna said. "The three of us, of course," she added, smiling. "But I assume from the fact we're here that you've decided we're in the clear?"

"I have, yes," said Eomer, smiling back. "No thumb screws and waterboarding for you three, don't worry."

"And Her Royal Highness as well, I assume?" said Fastmer.

"Not sure about that one, actually. Doesn't she seem a little shifty to you?"

Fastmer blinked like a lizard.

He should have known better than to crack a joke with his head guard. "I'm kidding, Fastmer. Of course, Her Royal Highness as well. I trust her more than anyone else in the world. I told her all this yesterday morning."

"Anyone else?" Algrin asked. "That you've already decided is beyond suspicion, I mean?"

"Not at the moment, no."

"We need to make a list," Fastmer said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket to pull out a notebook and pen. He probably had a sewing kit, a mini-torch and a box of band-aids in there as well. "Who to talk to first."

"Fenbrand," Algrin instantly said. "After the three of us, he's closer to His Majesty than anyone else in the Palace." He frowned. "I'm actually surprised you didn't include him in this meeting, sir. Was there a reason for that?"

What to say, that wouldn't sound like he was accusing Fenbrand of something? "I, um, I didn't feel _entirely_ comfortable sharing this with him just yet."

Colwenna raised a knowing brow at him. It was amazing, really, how much such a tiny movement could say…

"But yes, Fenbrand should go on the list," he said. "And a bunch of his people as well. Mareota, Fadrell, Gwinlen, Sorka," he said, rattling off the names of the people in Fenbrand's team he dealt with the most. "And that new guy, whatshisname"—he snapped his fingers, trying to remember—"the tall one, with the fair hair." Which, admittedly, described two thirds of the men in the city.

"Connet," Colwenna put in.

"Him, yes. He hasn't been here long enough for it to be him, but talk to him anyway. Make him feel included."

"I would also speak to Lorcas and Kenrith," Colwenna said, referring to two of the legal staff. "Maybe even Bronnig as well."

Fastmer scribbled the names. "What about His Majesty's Household?" he said, looking at Colwenna. "Who has access to his rooms? Who knows the most about his daily routine?"

"Bregdan, definitely. Edrick as well. Oh, and Narra, Raviniel and Angwen."

"Who are they?" Fastmer asked. "The last three, I mean?"

"The girls who clean His Majesty's rooms. They don't see or speak to him much, they only come in to clean when he's out—"

"But if one of them was so inclined, they could go poking through my personal things," Eomer concluded. Not that they would find anything scandalous if they did. He didn't have a drawer full of sex toys or bongs or porn.

"Exactly."

"I'll need to talk to some of your guards," Algrin said to Fastmer. "They spend more time with the King than anyone else in the building."

Fastmer sighed. "That you will, yes." He wrote down a handful of names.

The list kept going. "Drivers as well," Colwenna suggested. "They know where His Majesty goes, might even hear what he's saying"—she shot him the mildest of glares—"when he forgets to raise the privacy screen."

"Danner and Hammo are the two I know best." Fastmer scribbled again. "Anyone else?"

Colwenna raised a brow again, but this time as a silent prompt.

He knew exactly what she was prompting him to do. He hadn't wanted to do it today, but it touched on his private life, and on his privacy, so he might as well kill two birds with one stone.

"You should also speak to a driver called Yelisan," Eomer said.

Fastmer added the name. "Don't think I know him."

"Yelisan's a woman," Eomer explained. "And she's only been here for a few months, so she hasn't actually driven me yet." He took a breath for courage. "But she _has_ driven one of my guests."

"Which guest is that?" said Fastmer, frowning.

"Before I say anything more, I need you both to give me your word, what I'm about to tell you, you don't repeat to anyone else," Eomer said, looking from his security chief to his head guard. He didn't need to include Colwenna; she was already his partner in crime. "Specifically, not to my sister. Is that clear?"

"Of course," said Algrin, answering for both men.

Eomer went to claim his own seat, feeling the need to put the comforting bulk of his desk between him and his security people. "I, um, I'm seeing someone. Personally, I mean. Romantically. A young woman." He'd never been into guys, so that part, they could probably guess. "She's been here twice in the last week. Last Tuesday night, and Sunday morning."

Fastmer's frown developed a frown. "Your Majesty, I review the security logs at the end of the day, and I don't recall seeing either any guests on those days."

And there was the rub. He'd kept Solwen's visits off the books for privacy reasons, but in doing so, he'd violated some of the rules. And Fastmer, like Algrin, was a stickler for the rules. "Yes, about that," Eomer admitted.

Algrin heaved a knowing sigh. "Your Majesty, have you been breaking the rules again?"

Such an _ugly_ word—he preferred to think of what he'd done as lightly bending the rules instead. "I have, a little bit, yes. I've had someone here as my guest without informing either of you." He raised a placating hand. "Not anyone who would threaten me, so don't worry, there's been no risk to my safety at all."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I think Fastmer and I should be the judge of that," Algrin said.

Fastmer nodded. "We have the rules for a reason, sir. It's not just guards at your main door. There's weapons and chemical sensors as well. When you bypass those checks, you put yourself at risk." He looked to Colwenna. "You know that as well as we do. You should _never_ have allowed it."

"It's not my job to tell His Majesty what he can or can't do," Colwenna said.

Fastmer snorted. "Since bloody when?"

"Captain Holcroft, I don't think I care for your tone."

"Miss Wincrane, if I find out the King's guest has done something in her past that would make me view her as a threat, you'll care for a lot less than my tone."

"That's enough," said Eomer, firmly. The last thing he needed now was for Colwenna and Fastmer to start throwing down. Although, it would certainly be an interesting fight. Fastmer might be ex-military, but he knew for a fact Colwenna could punch like a boss. "The decision to skirt the security procedures was mine, not Colwenna's. She was only carrying out my requests. It's not her fault."

"How did you bring your guest into the Palace?" Fastmer asked, shooting Colwenna a final scowl. "It wasn't through any of the monitored doors, or one of the guards would have known about it."

"Through the garage," Eomer said. "Colwenna brought her up to the terrace from there."

"Using the back route, I assume."

"Yes."

"You're not supposed to do that, sir," Algrin said in the weariest of tones. "You'll recall, I wanted to put a camera on that door, but you demurred, on the basis it would only ever be used by people who have the highest possible security clearance?"

"I remember that, yes."

"But now you're using the door as a way to bring in guests who should go through the main door instead?"

"Yes, but if I bring a guest in through the main door, the guards on duty will see them."

Fastmer's tone was deadpan flat. "That's the whole point, sir. The guards are _supposed_ to see them. So they know there's someone with you. And so the scanners cam see them as well."

"Has it occurred to you, what a waste of time the scanners are? I mean, they scan a guest for weapons, sure. But why would they need to bring a weapon with them? If I'm having them over for dinner, they could just pick up a knife and stab me. Or push me over the terrace wall," Eomer pointed out.

"Sir—" Fastmer started.

"And I will _happily_ bring my guests in through the main door, if you can guarantee none of the guards will _ever_ gossip about it."

Fastmer sat back, scowling.

"I know they don't mean to," Eomer said in a more conciliatory tone. "But they do. All the bloody time. And I'm beginning to _hate_ it."

"I'm aware of that, sir," Fastmer quietly said. "And I'm doing my best to clamp down on it, I promise."

"You can't stop people being people," Colwenna said. "It's human nature. Just how it is."

"Except, murder is human nature as well, and somehow, we manage not do that," Eomer said. Not that he hadn't been occasionally tempted.

Algrin cleared his throat. "If we could get back to the matter at hand…"

"Sorry, yes, where were we?" Eomer said.

"You were about to tell us who your guest was. The young lady you've been seeing."

"Right, yes."

"Just for professional reasons, you understand, sir," Algrin added. "I know you said she wasn't a threat, and I can well believe that, but I'd still like to run a background check on her. Make sure there's nothing in her history that's likely to cause the Crown any trouble."

Likely to cause the Crown any trouble. A _Hamelmark_ , of all people. Eomer almost wanted to giggle. "Her name is Solwen Hamelmark," he revealed.

"Would that be _Lady_ Solwen Hamelmark, by any chance?" Algrin asked. "As in, one of the _Earl_ of Hamelmark's female relations?"

"It would, yes. The Earl's daughter, to be precise."

"Isn't that the one who was Banned?" Fastmer blurted. "For punching the Earl of Camelor's brother?"

Colwenna snorted; Algrin's head jerked round. "I'm sorry, for _what_?" he said.

Eomer held up a hand, stalling them both. "That was Lady Solwen, yes. But it was ten years ago, and I've lifted the Ban. It's all lava under the bridge at Khazad-dûm, now."

"Not for the Camelors, it isn't," Colwenna murmured.

"Yes, thank you, Colwenna," Eomer said. She was being _so_ very helpful today.

Colwenna simply looked at him as if she needed a cup of hot tea to sip.

"I don't imagine anything troubling will come up in a security check, sir. Seeing as how her father's an Earl." Algrin grimaced. "But it won't be an easy sell. If and when you ever go more public with it, I mean. The Hamelmarks, well, they're, um, how should I say—"

"Rabblerousers," Fastmer bluntly declared. "Could pick a fight in an empty room."

Eomer bristled in his now-girlfriend's defence. "That's a little bit harsh, I think. They're not picking any fights right now." That he was aware of, at least.

Colwenna made that snorting sound again. "Wait until you see Thursday's rebuttal."

"Is the Earl of Hamelmark going to speak against the petition?" Algrin said, with an expression Eomer wasn't sure fell under intrigue or horror.

Solwen must have told Colwenna as well. Although, given how close Eowyn was to the Countess of Darkfald, it was possible Colwenna had heard the news through other channels. "Apparently, yes," Eomer said. "But we shouldn't talk about that. Crown neutrality clause, remember?"

Algrin dipped his head. "Of course, sir. My apologies."

"Lady Solwen is a perfectly pleasant young woman," Eomer said. "Whatever mutinies her ancestors started, I have no intention of holding their actions against her." He would quite like to hold something else against her, but Thursday was only two days away, so that would happen soon enough. "So, whatever you think of her family's historic behaviour, you can either forget, or keep to yourself. Is that understood?" But he was glad he hadn't revealed where he'd gotten the email printout from—it would only have confirmed Algrin and Fastmer's suspicions. Although, given the contents of the email, maybe those suspicions deserved to be confirmed. It wasn't as if she'd brought him a photo of a cute puppy.

Algrin nodded. "Yes, sir. Absolutely," he said.

"Will you follow the proper procedures for any future visits, sir?" said Fastmer. "Bring her in through the main door?"

"Not right now, I won't." And certainly not for their date on Thursday. "Not until we find this mole. For reasons I'm sure you can understand, I don't want the Earl of Camelor to know who I'm dating."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to put my foot down here," said Algrin. "You're the King, and this is your home, but I'm your Security Chief, so it's my job, _our_ job"—he waved between him and Fastmer—"to keep you alive and well. I'm willing to give you a little leeway, but not a lot."

"Agreed," said Fastmer.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, no more bringing people in the back route." Algrin looked at Colwenna. "No more sending junior drivers to pick people up off the books, no more coming in through the _garage_ , of all places." He made a pained face. "It's the least watched entrance in the whole building."

Colwenna's tone was desert-dry. "That was the point."

The mention of the garage raised another troubling thought—one Eomer couldn't ignore. "That's someone else we should put on the interview list," he said.

"Who?" asked Fastmer.

"Brendal?" Colwenna guessed.

"Brendal, yes," said Eomer, nodding. "I don't think he's the spy, not for a second, but I talk to him about more than just bikes. I need to know it's not him." He would be utterly gutted if it was; he was beginning to think of the man as a friend of sorts. "He's the only person apart from Colwenna who knows about Lady Solwen's visits."

Fastmer opened his notepad again, scribbled Brendal's name at the top and underlined it three times.

"If it's any consolation, sir, it's not just you who'll have to re-learn the rules," said Algrin. "My team's preparing to do a full review of the Palace security systems over the Midsummer break. It's been a few years since we last did one, and I know for a fact some of the data's a mess. We have missing cards, broken scanners, people being able to get into rooms they shouldn't, or not get into rooms they should. It's not serious, nothing has ever put you or The Princess Royal at risk, but we definitely need to tidy things up."

"That's an excellent idea," Eomer said. He might ask them to take Eowyn's thumbprint off his main door, prevent a repeat of the Gwenna Freebourn debacle…

"And in light of your revelations today, I'd like to do a full _process_ review as well," Algrin added. "Send out some material to remind everyone of what the rules are, and how important it is to follow them. Always wearing your staff ID, no borrowing other people's cards, no letting other people skim through a door behind you—"

"No wedging security doors open with books," Fastmer muttered.

"Exactly." Algrin's smile was excruciatingly polite. "And I've always thought the best example is the one that comes right from the top." He looked at Eomer, making it clear where the 'top' started.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop breaking the rules, I promise." That reminded him, of something else he wanted Algrin to do. "While we're talking about security stuff, could you please authorize Lady Solwen to have my personal cell phone number? I have hers, so I can call her, but I'd like her to be able to call me as well." He didn't look at her, but he could feel Colwenna's eyebrow springing into action again.

"Of course. If you can give me her contact details, I'll deal with it today."

Eomer took out his phone, opened his Contacts list, found the entry for Solwen, clicked the option to email the info and sent it to Algrin at his Palace address. "I just sent it to you."

This time, Algrin's smile was smug. "You _do_ realize, sir, given what we're discussing today, I should really re-apply your phone's extra security features?"

"Remind me again, what that would do?"

"It would prevent anyone who isn't on the pre-authorized list from calling your phone. You asked to me to disable the feature a few months ago. Said it was _inconvenient_ for you."

Because it meant he couldn't give his number out without telling Algrin about it first.

He realized, then, who he would have to call. Seorsa was the only person who had his personal number who wasn't on the pre-authorized list. Dammit. He'd meant to call her last week. He was going to have to call her today, and not just because Algrin was about to block her. He was dating Solwen now. He needed his thing with Seorsa to be over and done, once and for all.

"Do that, later today. I, uh, I have one call I need to make first."

He swore he heard Colwenna snort…

"Of course, sir. I'll re-apply the settings at five o'clock?" Algrin suggested.

"Perfect."

"So, is there anything else anyone wants to discuss? Or, can we start looking for this mole?"

"Nothing from me," said Colwenna, pushing out her chair. "I'll leave it to Algrin and Fastmer to run things from here, but they can certainly come to me for help or advice if they need it."

"All I ask is, can you keep an eye on the Household staff?" Algrin said. "Let me know if you see any of them do anything that makes your gut rumble?"

"Of course."

Eomer rose, signalling the meeting is over. "Then, let's be about it," he said.

Colwenna held back, waiting for Algrin and Fastmer to leave.

Once they were gone, she turned to the King. "What would you like to do for Thursday, sir? I've already made the usual arrangements. Would you like me to cancel them, make them again the proper way?"

Eomer shook his head. "Stick to what you were already doing. Use the same driver again. I'm not going to follow the rules until this spy mess is sorted out."

"Very good, sir. I'll leave the arrangements as they are."

"You disapprove?"

"A little bit, but I understand as well." She went to empty the ashtray into the bin, fanning the noxious fumes away. "If the Earl of Camelor finds out who you're dating, I suspect it would be in the papers the following morning. And I don't think either of you need to run that gauntlet just yet."

"You seem to be softening on her a little. Solwen, that is."

Colwenna took a moment to consider her answer. "I am, yes. She's still a little too bold for my liking, but I can see now, she means well with it."

"That's good." He smiled. "It would be awfully difficult for us, I think. If you didn't like her, I mean."

"You don't need my approval to date." Or anyone's, for that matter. Except the government, perhaps.

"True. But I'd still rather have it. Your approval is important to me," he quietly said.

"You won't mind me asking a question, then."

"Not at all."

"That email printout," she said, pointing at the trash. "Where on earth did you get it?"

His smile vanished. "You don't need to know."

But that didn't mean she couldn't make a good guess, based on who he'd spoken to at the weekend. And it must have come to him at the weekend or since, or they would have had this meeting last week. "Was it Lady Solwen who gave it to you? When you met her for breakfast on Sunday?"

"What makes you say that?"

"It _was_ her, wasn't it?"

"I couldn't possibly comment."

"And I'm willing to bet good money she got it from that father of hers." And Bema only knew how the email had come to him—the man probably had fingers in all kinds of shady pies…

His blank expression told her all she needed to know.

"I won't say anything, I promise," she said, raising a blocking hand. "But you need to be careful," she warned. "I like Lady Solwen, really, I do, but Fastmer was right. The Hamelmarks _are_ good at picking fights, whether the room's empty or not." She grabbed the bin, intending to take it to be emptied. "The next time they start swinging fists, make sure you're not one of the people who takes a right hook."

"So, what did you make of that?" Algrin said, once they were halfway down the King's Hall.

Fastmer snorted. "Which bloody part?"

"The King's new friendship, of course." Scandalized, Algrin leaned in. "A _Hamelmark_ , of all people?"

Fastmer ground to a halt, feeling as cantankerous as King Helm on the wall behind Algrin looked. "See, this is the problem," he said.

"What is?" said Algrin, frowning.

"You're _gossiping_. Doing the one thing the King specifically said he doesn't want people to do."

"I didn't mean any harm."

"I know you didn't. And most people don't. But the end result is never good. And like you said back there, the best example comes from the top. So when one of us does it, we tell our staff it's okay for them to do it as well."

Algrin sighed. "You're right. I apologize. I shouldn't talk about the King's private affairs."

"You shouldn't, no. None of us should." He smirked. "But yes, it's rather a shock. Who the King's dating, I mean. Bema knows he's not the most sensible man in the world when it comes to women. But dating someone who's best known for _punching_ someone?" He shook his head. "I can't see anything good ever coming of that."

"I haven't heard the story. I don't know what she did."

He started walking again; Algrin rushed to keep up. "Short version, she punched the Earl of Camelor's brother, at her own father's installation ceremony. In the Golden Hall, of all places."

"Were you there?"

"I wasn't, no. I was still in the Army at that point. But my old boss was. He told me all about it before he retired. Said it was one of the best right hooks he'd ever seen."

"He approved?"

"Only of the way she punched. Certainly not of who or where or why."

"I find it hard to believe His Majesty would have lifted the Ban if there wasn't more to the story than that. He's a soft touch sometimes, I know, likes to give people second chances, but not _that_ soft."

Fastmer sighed. "No idea. You'd have to ask him."

"No, thank you. I think I'll just stay clueless instead."

A case of ignorance being bliss, for sure. "So, when are you going to start? With the one-to-one meetings, I mean?"

"I'll start them today. Should be able to get through a decent number this week."

"Will you need any help?" Fastmer asked.

"Not initially, no. If I talk to someone, and they ping my radar, I'll have you sit in while I talk to them again. Get a backup opinion."

He was fine with that, as long as Algrin's radar didn't ping with one of his guards. He would be gutted, if the spy was someone in his own team. After everything he'd poured into this job—literal blood, sweat and tears—he couldn't bear the thought of having a traitor in the guard's ranks. "You know where to find me if and when you need me."

"Brendal!" someone called out behind him, just as he reached the inner gate.

Brendal turned to find Vonnal jogging towards him, wearing everyday clothes instead of his greens. He must have just finished his shift. "Done for the day?" he asked. He'd just clocked off himself, was heading home to have a beer while he watched the news.

Vonnal nodded. "All done, yes." He wouldn't have too far to go, at least—only to the apartment block at the end of the Hill which belonged to the Crown Estate. One of the perks of being a King's Guard. Sadly, not one that extended to the mechanics. Vonnal gestured at the gate. "You mind if I walk out to the road with you?"

"Not at all." Brendal said, picking up his pace again. "Something on your mind, or is it just a social thing?"

"A bit of both, actually." Vonnal swiped his card to open the gate, waited for them both to pass through then pulled it over behind him. "I, um, I wanted to ask, when the King goes to the March, are you going with him?"

Brendal nodded. "I certainly am. He wants to do some riding while he's there. Try out some of the local roads. If he's riding, you lot will be as well. You'll need me there to deal with the bikes." And maybe, occasionally, to ride with them as well. "Which reminds me, who else in your team is going?" Not everyone in the King's Guard could ride, much to Fastmer's eternal frustration.

"As well as Fastmer, it's me, Nedris, Dunthel, Guthlaf and Kennet. Plus, Ranlen and Andriel from Algrin's team."

That didn't seem like an awful lot. Although, it was just to take care of one man. "Will that be enough people? And enough riders?"

"Should be, aye. Kennet and Ranlen both ride, so when the King goes out, one of them will be our fourth."

"Why aren't you taking Dernbrand instead? He's done plenty of riding with the King." Not that Brendal cared. He didn't really get on with Dernbrand. The man was a bit too smug for his liking, a tiny bit too full of himself. Although, he would take Dernbrand over Godhild any day of the week. A right wee nippy sweety, that one.

"Dernbrand's going to Aldburg with the Princess. It was either me or him, and Fastmer figured I'd be more use in the March."

Understandable, given where Vonnal was from. Except for one thing. "Does he realize, you've never set foot in Isendale in your life?"

"Course not." Vonnal shrugged. "You know what it's like. People think if you're from a clan, you know everything about the whole place."

"You mean you don't? I'm shocked."

"You Giantsbanes. Real comedians, the lot of you."

"I'm not a Giantsbane, lad." He didn't mind being mistaken for one, but he was careful not to claim to be something he wasn't—something a lot of clan folk could be touchy about.

"Your mother is. That's close enough for me."

"At least you'll have Nedris with you to keep you right. She grew up on the south side of Isendale. She'll know the city like the back of her hand."

"Is the south side nice?"

"It's like any city, hit and miss. Some parts are, some not so much. But I think where she's from is nice." Or, it had been, the last time he'd been out that way. "Why do you ask?"

"No particular reason," Vonnal said, trying to sound nonchalant.

The lad was such a terrible liar. "Spit it out, man. You're not fooling anyone here."

"I just wanted to know a bit more about where she's from. She talks about it a lot. Where she grew up, where her family are."

The look on his face, the tone of his voice. Bema save them, surely not? "Vonnal, by any chance, are you taking a wee bit of a shine to Nedris?"

"Not at all," said Vonnal, trying his hardest to sound offended. "We're just good friends."

Of course they were. The same way Solwen and the King had just been good friends. "You'll need to be careful when we're up in the March. Just the eight of you, living in much closer quarters? And such a romantic location as well?" He winked. "Could give a man a _lot_ of ideas."

"You can get to fuck with your ideas."

He patted Vonnal on the shoulder. "Just teasing you, son. No harm meant."

They walked in silence, making their way to the main gate.

"And, um, speaking of things being romantic," Vonnal eventually said.

"Uh huh?"

Vonnal veered a little closer to whisper, "Have you heard if there's anything more going on between the King and that woman he had lunch with?"

Wouldn't Vonnal just love to know. But what could he say, without breaking the promise he'd made to Solwen? Or violating the confidentiality clause both of them had in their contracts? He shouldn't say anything, not so much as a word, but he trusted Vonnal to be discreet. "You can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. You have to give me your word you won't talk. One Marcher to another."

Vonnal nodded. "On my honour as a Stonehawk, I swear."

For Vonnal, that was as serious as a promise could get. "They're dating. It's an _actual_ thing. But that's all I'm saying. And I shouldn't even have told you that."

"Do you think we'll get to meet her? When we're up in the March, I mean?"

"Oh, I think so, yes."

"Could be an interesting trip."

Poor Vonnal. Such an innocent lad at heart. He _honestly_ had no idea…

She was watching a movie when her phone rang. Nothing new—some crappy, comforting sci-fi thing she'd seen a dozen times before. She grabbed the phone with one hand, pausing the movie with the other. She swiped to open the call, not even bothering to check who it was. "Hello, this is Solwen," she said.

A pause, then a plummy male voice she didn't recognize said, "Lady Solwen, I'm calling from the Meduseld Palace." He paused to let his announcement sink in. "My name is Algrin Paxter. I'm the Head of Security for His Majesty The King."

She sat up, swinging her feet onto the floor. "Hi, there," she said, trying to decide what to say next. How did one greet His Majesty's security chief? "How are you today?"

If the security dude disapproved, he kept his thoughts to himself. "I'm very well, thank you for asking," he said. "And you?"

"Also very well, thank you. What is it I can help you with?"

"Lady Solwen, before I explain, may I ask, are you alone? Not in a situation where you're like to be overhead?"

Everyone but her dad was out. But he was in his office, right at the other end of the house. Not even he could overhear a conversation through a closed door from twenty-odd metres away. She hoped. "I'm alone, yes. It's safe to talk."

"I'm calling to let you know, His Majesty has asked me to authorize you to be able to call his personal number."

She jumped to her feet, did a small victory dance on the rug. This was fan-fucking-tastic news—another indication of how well her thing with Eomer was proceeding. Sharing the Keveleok email hadn't frightened him off after all. "That's excellent news, thank you," she said.

"There's nothing you need to do, it's all managed by software at our end. I won't give you His Majesty's number myself, you'll have to wait for him to call you first. But once he does, his origin won't show as UNKNOWN anymore. You'll see his actual number, which you can then respond to."

"Does that include text messages?"

"It certainly does."

Now, she could send him stupid memes and jokes. Maybe even the occasional naughty photo or two…

"But you should know, there are rules you need to follow," he added. "And that if you don't adhere to them, your authorization to call the number will be revoked."

"What kind of rules?"

"What you would expect, when dealing with a highly confidential number. Rules about where, when and how you should call. Rules about what you should or shouldn't say. And about what kind of messages you should or shouldn't send."

So much for the naughty photos—they were sure to be at the top of the 'Not Allowed' list. Which was understandable—it would save the King from a public shaming if the phone ever fell into the wrong hands. "I understand," she said. "How do we proceed from here? Do you send me a rule book to read? Is there something I need to sign to indicate I've agreed to comply?"

"Nothing as formal as that. I'll run through the rules over the phone, explain them, answer any questions you have. There's only a few, so it won't take long. But I will be recording the call. For security purposes, you understand. And at the end of the call, I'll ask you to clearly confirm you understand what you've been told."

Bema, all this fuss, just so she could make a few calls. But Eomer _was_ the King—not someone just anyone could have in their Contacts list. "Not a problem. I'm happy to do whatever needs to be done."

"You give your consent to be recorded?"

"I certainly do."

"Very well." Something at the other end clicked. "Let's begin. How to record the King's personal number in your Contacts list."

Eomer's phone buzzed against his chest. He pulled it out, swiping it open to check the message. It was an email from Algrin, confirming Solwen had been added to his authorized personal callers list. Which meant, now, he could call her, and she could call him.

It also meant he had to call Seorsa. He couldn't date Solwen while he still hadn't fully wrapped up his previous thing. Solwen didn't strike him as the jealous or possessive type, but it would still be wrong, to leave it all hanging.

"Danner, how long until we're back at the Palace?" he said to the driver.

"About twenty minutes, sir," Danner said. "Fifteen, if the traffic is good."

Plenty of time to do the deed now—it shouldn't take more than five minutes. "Thank you." He raised the privacy screen, swiped through his Contacts list until he found Seorsa's number. He hesitated, thumb hovering over the button, then pressed down to start the call.

She answered after three rings. "Your Majesty, good afternoon," she said. "Long time, no talk."

He tried not to wince. It had been just over a week since she'd called him; he should have returned her call long before now. "Lady Camelor, good afternoon, how are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you. And you? Everything healing after your crash? I saw the photos in the paper last week, the whole thing looked rather alarming."

"Healing just fine, thank you. No serious injuries, thank Bema. I hurt my shoulder, it's still giving me trouble, but nothing that won't clear up in a week or so."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"You called me last Tuesday, my apologies for not responding, I was in a meeting with the Prime Minister at the time."

"Must have been a very long meeting," she said.

"And I'm sorry I haven't called since," Eomer said. "It's been a hell of a week. Haven't had a lot of quiet time to myself." Not entirely true, but she didn't need to know that.

"But you're calling now. So, I forgive you."

"You're very kind."

"Do you have some quiet time this week?" Her voice dropped to a seductive murmur. "Perhaps you'd like to come over, relax, have a few drinks?"

He sighed. "Yes, about that."

"Problem?" she said.

He said a silent prayer for courage. "I, um, actually, I won't be able to come over to your place again. I think it's time my visits stopped."

Silence. "I see," she eventually said, her tone more formal now. "Can I ask, is there any particular reason why?"

"Seorsa, you know as well as I do, this was never going to be more than just a quick thing between us. However much I like you, whatever feelings I think I could have developed for you given the chance, at the end of the day, it doesn't matter. We're never going to have that chance. And you know that as well as I do."

She let out a sigh. "I do, yes. I'm just a little bit disappointed."

"I know," he said softly.

"But thank you for taking the time to tell me yourself." He could almost hear her pulling her shoulders back. "I know how busy you are, so I appreciate that."

"Are we still friends?" he asked.

"Of course."

"You're still coming to the Midsummer party, then?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

He breathed a sigh of relief—he'd expected it to be harder than this, for her to cry, or throw a small tantrum. "Glad to hear it," he said. "We'll catch up, talk more then."

"We certainly will."

"You enjoy the rest of your week. Take care, I'll see you soon." He pressed the button to hang up the call. He went to his Contacts list, found the entry for her name and deleted the record. There was no reason for him to call her now. He couldn't have personal contact with her, and if she needed to talk to him on a non-personal basis, say, about his role in her new charity thing, she would have to go through Fenbrand's office.

He felt relieved, but also slightly deflated. He couldn't go on seeing her. Didn't want to, now he was dating Solwen instead.

But it _had_ been fun.

Seorsa wanted to throw the phone at the wall.

Eomer was right—there never had been any chance for them, never would be, either—but it still hurt to have it end.

Oh, well. It was what it was, and she couldn't do anything about it. They'd had fun, but it was all over now. And it wasn't as if Eomer was the only man she could date. There were plenty more fish in the sea, or stallions in the stable, or whatever the hell that old saying was.

Like that nice Gondorian man she'd met at that party last week…


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fastmer and Algrin turn up the pressure on Godhild. Solwen shares some information with her dad. Brendal receives a surprise invitation.

**Wednesday June 17, 2020**

Dernbrand was the one who warned her.

Godhild was in the canteen, tucked away in a quiet corner, giving off her best 'don't bother me' vibe, picking at a cooling plate of what the menu claimed was Pelennor Chicken, but looked and tasted like no plate of Pelennor Chicken she'd ever had in her life. She wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to her surroundings, didn't notice her teammate at all until he materialized at her side.

"You mind if I join you?" he said, gesturing to a chair.

She would honestly rather eat by herself. But it could be worse; at least it wasn't Guthlaf or Vonnal. "Not at all, no," Godhild lied.

He placed his lunch tray on the table. "You feeling any better today?" he asked as he sat.

"Much better, yes. Was just a migraine, I get them from time to time. The best cure is just to pull the curtains shut and sleep." She didn't tell him she hadn't actually been sick at all. After the thing with Fastmer on Monday, she'd just wanted to take a day off. Partly to have some time to herself, partly as a 'fuck you' to her boss, knowing her last-minute no-show would send him into a spin. Which it apparently had. But that was tough shit for Fastmer. Staffing and schedules were his problem to worry about, not hers.

"You chose a good day to not be at work," Dernbrand said, spooning a mouthful of soup.

So was every day, in her opinion. "Oh? Why's that?"

He glanced over his shoulder, checking to see who was sitting nearby, then leaned over the table to tell her, "Something bad is going on."

"What kind of something?"

"A security something. A serious one." His voice dropped to a conspirative whisper. " _Algrin's_ involved."

That _definitely_ counted as bad. Algrin was the Head of Security for the whole Palace, one of the Fantastic Four, as everyone called the King's quartet of most trusted people. He would never dirty his hands with something minor or mundane. "How's he involved? What's he doing?"

"He's _speaking_ to people," Dernbrand said, as if speaking was some terrible crime. "Bringing them into his office for one-to-one chats. Asking all kinds of security questions."

Hearing that, Godhild's heart started to pound. "Has he spoken to you yet?"

Grim-faced, Dernbrand nodded. "First thing this morning. Had just clocked in, Fastmer came to tell me Algrin wanted to see me."

"And what was it all about? Your chat, I mean? What did Algrin want to know?"

"A whole bunch of things." He paused to take some more soup. "If I knew of any security violations. If I'd broken any security regulations myself."

She snorted. "As if anyone's ever going to be honest on that."

"Was weird, though. He also asked me if I'd breached any of the confidentiality clauses in my contract. Or if I knew if anyone else had breached theirs." He stirred his soup, scraping the spoon against the side of the bowl. The soul-piercing noise it made; she wanted to snatch the damn thing out of his hands. "And if anyone in the Palace had taken too much of an interest in the King," he added. "Asked questions about him or his activities that seemed pushy or out of place."

Her right knee started to bounce. She didn't know how, but somehow, Algrin had figured out someone in the Palace was spying. She took a slow breath, trying to keep her cool. No need to lose her shit yet; it might not be as bad as it sounded. "Who's he talking to? Is it just one particular team?" Talking to the guards made sense, given how much time they spent with the King.

His brows pulled into a frown. "Here's the thing. I snuck a look at the list of names on Algrin's desk while he had his back turned." He let go of his spoon, grabbed his dinner roll to tear off a chunk. "There were all kinds of people on it. Guards, cleaners, lawyers, drivers."

Drivers. Yelisan. Oh, Gods…

"So, whatever he's doing, it's not just our team he's worried about," Dernbrand concluded.

"What did you tell him?"

"Absolutely nothing at all." He shrugged. "Didn't have anything to tell him, did I?" He dropped the chunk of bread in his soup, used his spoon to hold it down until the spicy liquid soaked in. "I mean, I _could_ have told him about that conversation we had last week. When you asked me about the woman the King met while he was out on his ride. And how you thought she might be the woman you saw that night at the Sovereign's Door." He raised his head, looking her straight in the eye. "But there wasn't anything to that, was there? You weren't trying to dig up private information about the King? We were just chatting about silly stuff, right?"

"Course we were. There was nothing to it at all." She pushed her chicken around the plate, what little she'd had of an appetite gone.

"Because if there _was_ something to it," Dernbrand added, stirring his soup again, "and you've done something wrong, it might be better in the long run if you confessed. If you went and told them right now."

"I haven't done anything wrong. Like I said. We were just chatting."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

He shrugged, accepting. "Nothing to worry about then, I guess."

Only the shrieking panic inside her head…

She buttoned her jacket, smoothed it down and raised her fist to knock on the door.

"Come in," the office owner called out.

She opened the door, wearing her most amenable smile, glad nobody would be able to hear how quickly her heart was beating. She'd never been in Algrin's office before, had only met the man once, for a few seconds, back on her first day in the job, when her boss had given her a quick tour of the Palace. The same boss who'd come to her twenty minutes ago to let her know the Head of Security wanted to chat. He'd been stern-faced, and rightly so. Everyone knew how busy Algrin was, how many high level problems he had on his plate. He didn't call you down to his office just to tell you off for losing your pass or for tailing somebody through the main gate.

Something else was going on. Something bad. And worryingly, Algrin seemed to think she was part of the problem.

"Good morning, sir," she said, smiling again. Her right knee started to tremble; she tensed her leg to hold it in place. "Boremund said you wanted to see me?"

His own smile was open and warm—not at all what she'd expected. "I did, yes. And thank you for coming at such short notice. I know how busy all of you are." He waved to the chair in front of his desk. "This won't take long. Have a seat, please."

She claimed the seat, perching on the edge of the cushion, spine straight, knees clamped tightly together. She clasped her hands in her lap, hoping he wouldn't notice how firmly she was pressing her fingers into her skin.

He sat himself, reaching out to pull a folder towards him. He opened it, scanning down a page inside. "So, Yelisan. I see you haven't been with us for long."

"Just over five months, now, sir. I joined the team at the start of the year."

"And how is everything so far? Are you enjoying your work?"

"Very much, sir, yes," was her honest response. Maybe some chit-chat would help her relax. And persuade her she hadn't done something wrong. "I like meeting new people, and it's given me a chance to see things I wouldn't otherwise get to see."

Expressionless, he raised his eyes to her, scrutinized her for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze back to the page.

Oh, dear. Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say.

"You're probably wondering why you're here," he said, clasping his hands over the folder.

"I, um, I thought maybe, I'd done something wrong?"

His smile was cooler this time. Cunning, almost, as if she'd just walked into a trap. "And why on earth would you ever think that?" he asked.

Time to be honest again. "You're the Head of Security, sir. It's your job to make sure people don't do things they shouldn't. And to punish them when they do."

"Very true, yes. But you'll be pleased to know, that's not why I asked you to come here today."

Relief flooded through her. "I'm not in trouble, then?"

"Not at all, no." He reached to grab a pen. "But I'm going to ask you some security-related questions. When you answer, I need you to be absolutely honest with me. Tell me the truth, even if you think your answer is going to get you or someone else in trouble." His tone was soothing and calm. "I give you my word, as long as you're honest with me, there will be no consequences for anybody." His eyes and tone turned hard. "But if you _don't_ tell me the truth, and I find out later that you lied to me, the consequences will be rather severe. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I do."

"You'll answer every question I'm about to ask you honestly, to the best of your knowledge?"

"Yes, sir. I will." The way she was feeling right now, she would tell him anything he wanted to know—from her bank account balance and her PIN number all the way down to what cup size she wore and how many girlfriends she'd had. Anything, to get through this meeting.

He clicked the pen open. "Let's begin, then, shall we?"

Footsteps clicked along the King's Hall. Two sets—one in well-heeled men's shoes, one in squeaking uniform boots.

Fastmer leaned over slightly—just enough to see who was coming. Sure enough, Algrin and Kennet were striding towards him. Algrin must be here to meet with the King. But why the hell was Kennet with him? He was supposed to be on perimeter check today.

To Fastmer's surprise, instead of passing through the doors, Algrin turned his way. "We need to talk," he said, grim-faced. " _Right_ now." He turned to gesture at Kennet, waiting a few metres away. "I brought Kennet to cover for you."

The lack of a greeting, the tone of his voice, the serious set of his brow and jaw—Algrin wasn't kidding. Fastmer nodded. "Of course." He beckoned Kennet forward. "Take over for me, please. I'll be back as soon as I can." He turned to Dunthel. "You're in charge. Deal with anything that comes up," he said.

Dunthel nodded. "Yes, sir."

Algrin led him to a nearby door, into a thick-walled, windowless room full of bedding and bathroom supplies. Not the most elegant of meeting places, but at least in here, nobody could eavesdrop on them.

"What's wrong?" Fastmer asked. He took a quick guess. "Has one of your interviews turned something up?"

Algrin nodded. "Three of them, actually. Raising the same warning points about the same person. And not just vague warning points, either. Strong enough I had to speak to you as soon as I could."

"Who about?" His stomach clenched in anticipation.

"Godhild," Algrin said, looking at him with a vaguely apologetic expression.

Groaning, Fastmer leaned his head back to look at the ceiling. A weary rage set into his bones. She'd always been trouble, but he'd never expected her to be trouble like this. And why, why, _why_ did it have to be one of his people? Why couldn't it be one of Fenbrand's legal or media people instead?

His thoughts went immediately to what Godhild's motives might be. Money, most likely; he couldn't imagine she was doing it for ideological reasons. But he shouldn't assume she was guilty just yet. He should hear the evidence first, give her a chance to account for her actions. "What were the warning points?" he said. "Who were the three people, what did they say?"

"Nedris, Yelisan and Brendal. And they all said more or less the same thing. That Godhild's been asking questions she shouldn't."

Nedris, he could trust. If everyone in the team was as solid as her, he would never have any staff issues to deal with. Yelisan, he didn't know. As for the third of the three named people... "How did the interview with Brendal go?"

"About as well as you'd expect. When I asked him if he'd violated his confidentiality clause, he told me I could, and I quote, 'fuck off all the way to fuck.'"

Yes, that sounded like something Brendal would say. "A real charmer, isn't he?"

"I often wonder why the King hired him."

"Maybe because however charming he is or isn't, he's also extremely good at his job?" And Fastmer's gut told him Brendal wasn't a traitor. Annoying, yes. But loyal as well.

"Why don't we go back to my office?" Algrin said. "I'll show you the notes I took in the meetings, talk you through it all from there?"

"You still have that fancy Gondorian coffee machine?"

"I certainly do."

If he was about to sit in judgement on one of his own people, he might as well have a nice cup of Algrin's coffee to help him along. Just a shame he couldn't put some of Algrin's whiskey in it as well. "After you," he said, waving to the door. "Just let me speak to Kennet first. Tell him I'll be more than a few minutes."

The summons came in just after four.

Godhild was in the security room, feet sitting up on the desk, half-heartedly watching the feeds, trying to summon the energy to give a damn about her so-called career. She was still angry about what Fastmer had said. Half because she hated being told off by her boss, half because she knew he was right. She _did_ make her co-workers take sides. She didn't know why; it was just something she'd always done, in every job she'd ever been in. As a kid in school as well.

She turned as someone knocked on the door. It was Dernbrand again, as grim-faced as he'd been this morning. "Algrin wants to speak to you." She didn't ask why; she already knew.

"What, _now_?" she said.

He nodded. "In his office. I'm here to cover for you."

She swung her feet off the desk. "Camera three's been misbehaving," she said, tapping the screen. "Keeps freezing up, so keep an eye on it."

As she moved past him, his hand shot out to circle her arm. "Remember what I said this morning. If you've done something wrong, it might be best to tell Algrin now. Don't try to hide it. It'll only make things worse in the end."

"I haven't done anything wrong," she said, jerking her arm away. "I don't have anything to hide."

"Shouldn't be a problem, then, should it?"

Fastmer was in the hallway when she arrived, hands tucked behind his back, face blank, staring absently at the floor.

Strange. She'd checked the duty roster this morning; he was supposed to be at the door with Dunthel right now. Why the hell was he even here? Had Algrin called him for a meeting as well, but forgotten he was already booked?

Fastmer's head came up as she approached. "Lieutenant," he said, nodding curtly. No smile, and no other greeting, but that didn't necessarily mean something was wrong. He wasn't the warmest or most loquacious of people.

"Captain," Godhild said, nodding back.

"You're here to speak to Algrin," he said. A blunt statement, not a question.

"That's right."

"I've been thinking over what we talked about on Monday," he said, suddenly changing gear on her.

Why on earth was he raising this here? And now, when she was moments away from an urgent meeting? "So have I," she said. She was still angry with him, but if she could admit her flaws to herself, surely she could find the courage to admit them to her boss as well?

Fastmer sighed. "Godhild?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Before we go in, is there anything you would like to tell me?" His voice was softer now, kinder, persuasive almost, but still with a hint of steel underneath. It reminded her of the way her mother used to speak to her and her sister when she knew they'd done something wrong.

She realized then, what else he'd said. _We_. Her meeting wasn't just with Algrin—Fastmer would be there as well.

The Head of Security and her own boss. Oh, Gods…

She almost told him. Right there and then. Almost blurted the whole story out, right down to how the weather had been on the day she'd agreed to do what she'd done. _Tell him_ , the nagging voice inside her head hissed. She knew Fastmer didn't like her, but she also knew he was fair. He was giving her the chance to come clean, to work through the problem with them instead of forcing them to hunt her until the bitter end.

She wanted to.

But she couldn't. She had too much to lose, too much skin in the game. And not just hers—her sister's as well.

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir," she said, showing her best puzzled frown. "I don't even know why I'm here. What is it you think I could tell you?"

He pulled his soul-staring trick again, hands still behind his back, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly.

She held his gaze, lifting her chin, daring him to call her out.

With a conceding sigh, he nodded. "Algrin is waiting for us." He went to the door, knocked lightly and strode right in, stepping aside to wave her through.

Algrin was at his fireplace (and really, who had a _fireplace_ in their office), holding a cup of coffee or tea, staring into the unlit grill. He turned as she entered, showing her the smallest of smiles. "Godhild, hello, thank you for coming so quickly."

"No problem, sir." She jumped as Fastmer slammed the door behind them. "Whatever it's about, I'm happy to help however I can."

Algrin waved to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat, please," he said, going to claim his own luxurious-looking chair. To her disquiet, instead of taking a chair himself, Fastmer chose to stand at the side of the room, stony-faced, staring at her, still clasping his hands behind his back. She knew exactly what he was doing. Standing gave him a psychological boost—when she spoke to him, she would be looking up at him.

"I'll start by asking you if you have any idea why we've asked you to join us today," Algrin said.

The good, old self-incrimination trick now—the same reason traffic cops always asked if you knew why they'd pulled you over. "I don't, sir, no." She was giving them nothing, not even the fact Dernbrand had warned her something was up. She was going to play stupid until the sun went down and the final Eored came home.

Algrin looked to Fastmer, who gave the tiniest of nods—more of an overdone blink.

"We're all busy people, so I won't waste time," Algrin said. "We—that is Fastmer and I—have good reason to believe there's a spy in the Palace."

"A spy?" she repeated, allowing both her voice and her brows to shoot up. "What kind of spy? What does that even mean?"

"Someone in the Palace is passing confidential information to an external party," Algrin said. "Presumably in return for some kind of payment."

"Confidential information about the King," Fastmer added. "The kind of information the tabloid papers would print."

Her stomach rose into her throat. She swallowed, forcing the gagging sensation away. "That's a very serious problem, sir. But what does it have to do with me?"

"We think you're the spy," said Fastmer, bluntly. "We have good reason to believe you're the one who's selling the information."

Heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst, she considered her options, plumped for dumbfounded shock. "I'm sorry, you _what_?" she exclaimed.

Algrin explained. "I've been looking into who's been asking for information about the King. Who's been paying attention to where he's going and what he's doing. Who's gathering _gossip_ about him." As if it was a dirty word. But in his mind, it probably was. "I only started yesterday, and already, three people have pointed at you."

Her stomach threatened to rise up again. She couldn't plead ignorance here. She _had_ been asking about the King, and they had too many witnesses on their side. She wondered who the witnesses were. No matter. She had other things to worry about. "You're right," she said, going for humble and penitent now. "I _have_ been asking people about him. But there's been no malicious intent behind it." She sighed. "I'm just… I'm nosy, I guess."

"Horseshit," Fastmer said.

Grimacing, Algrin held up a hand. "I won't be as blunt as Fastmer, but you'll forgive me if I'm not convinced. The questions you've been asking, they've been more than just nosy. They've apparently been extremely direct, looking for highly specific pieces of information."

"Such as?"

"The name of a woman the King had lunch with, for one," Fastmer said. "You've asked about that to the point of dogged persistence."

"I was just curious," she said, dropping her eyes to stare at her hands. "I didn't mean harmful anything by it."

Algrin took over again. "So, if we looked at your phone and financial records, we wouldn't find anything strange? No text messages to someone who works for a newspaper? No unexplained cash deposits?"

Her mouth went dry, her heart started to race again. They couldn't really do that, could they? It would be all over if they did. Not so much with her financial records, but her phone was full of incriminating texts. "You wouldn't, no," she said, licking her lips to wet them. She'd pushed too far; this was about to go truly and horrifyingly wrong.

Fastmer sighed. "Godhild, you're not fooling anyone here. I can see in your body language how much you're lying to us."

"I'm not lying, I swear." But her words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"Tell us the truth," said Algrin softly, leaning forward, imploring her with his gaze. "Tell us who you're gathering the information for. Let us help you. Please," he urged.

She choked back a sob. She wanted to tell them, but she couldn't. If she gave up, she would be utterly ruined. _He_ would see to that.

"Lieutenant, if you won't talk to us, we'll stop this discussion now, and you'll have to talk to the police instead," said Fastmer, throwing the carrot away, going back to the stick. "Tell us what you're doing, and who you're doing it for, before we have to do something we can't walk away from."

In a flash, she saw a way out—a saving light at the end of the tunnel. She was so relieved, she wanted to laugh.

"It's Fenbrand," she blurted.

"I'm sorry," said Algrin, dumbfounded. "Did you just say _Fenbrand_?"

She nodded. She had her way out, she was on a roll now. "He likes to know things about the King. _Personal_ things. He's asked a bunch of people on staff to pass on any inside gossip they hear about him." She looked to Fastmer. "You know that, sir. You were there when he asked me." He could shove his stick up his arse. And his carrot as well.

Algrin turned on Fastmer, blinking in disbelief, brows climbing into his hair.

"Lieutenant, I have absolutely _no_ idea what the _hell_ you're talking about," Fastmer said, scowling at her.

"It was back in April, a day we were on door duty together," she said. "Fenbrand had a meeting, he stopped at the door to ask how the King was, because he'd been in a funny mood all week. You told him you didn't know what was wrong, he asked us to keep him updated if you heard anything more."

"That was only about that week. Because the King had been in such a sh—in such a bad mood."

"Yes, but a few weeks later, Fenbrand spoke to me again." She cast her eyes down again. "I told him the rumour, about the King having lunch with a woman, he asked me if I knew who it was, I said I didn't, he told me to let him know if I ever found out."

" _That's_ why you've been asking around?" Algrin said. "So you can pass the information along to _Fenbrand_?"

She nodded. "Fenbrand's one of the most important people in the Palace, sir. I figured it wouldn't do any harm to have him owe me a favour."

Fastmer wasn't satisfied. "Who was on the door with you? The second time you spoke to him? Who else was there, who can back you up?"

"Nobody, sir."

"What do you mean nobody?" Fastmer's face scrunched in annoyance. "We _always_ have two guards. None of us should ever be at the door on our own."

She sharpened her knife. "It was supposed to be you, sir," she quietly said. "But you'd been in a meeting with the King, had to rush off to take care of something. You asked Guthlaf to come up to cover, but it was a few minutes before he arrived." She drove the knife right in. "I'm sure if you ask around, you'll find Fenbrand has asked other people to feed him information as well."

"Did he say why he wanted to know?" Algrin asked.

She shook her head. "I assumed he was just nosy, but…" she shrugged, leaving the implication hanging.

Silence.

Algrin and Fastmer shared a look; a troubled, angry, doubtful look. She'd planted the seed in their minds, now, their own suspicious natures were letting it grow. One of the downsides of working in the security field—it was too easy to see plots and schemes in every shadow.

Algrin sighed and said, "Thank you, Lieutenant. I think that will be all for now."

"I'm not in trouble, then?"

Algrin forced a smile. "You're not in trouble, no." More firmly, he added, "But under no circumstances should you repeat anything we've discussed here today to anyone else in the Palace. Not so much as a word. On pain of being instantly escorted out of the Palace. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir." No lying this time. She wasn't saying a damn thing about this, not even to Dernbrand.

"You're free to go, Lieutenant," Fastmer said, sounding as pissed off as he looked. And rightly so—she'd all but dropped him right in the middle of his own problem. "Thank you for your time."

She didn't need to be told twice. She rose from her chair, gave both men a respectful nod and quietly let herself out.

At the end of the hall, once she'd rounded a corner and moved out of sight, she quietly punched a fist in the air.

The door snicked shut; Algrin sighed and turned to address him. "Well, then. What did you make of all that?"

"You believe her?" Fastmer said. "You actually think Fenbrand's our spy?"

"We both know how much he likes to gossip. And how much he likes to keep tabs on what the King's doing."

And what impact those tendencies had. "It's why he doesn't get on with Colwenna. Because she won't allow him to manage the King's personal schedule." A sensible choice, in Fastmer's opinion. In the King's shoes, he would want Colwenna in that role as well.

"But is he just being nosy, or is he a spy?" Algrin asked.

"He's certainly in a better position to spy than literally anyone else in the Palace."

"Except for Colwenna, of course." An observation, not an accusation.

"And you know how people feel about him. He's…" Fastmer broke off, struggling to find the right word.

"Unctuous?" Algrin suggested.

"Good enough, yes. Even the King doesn't like how he is. And I've always believed, when your gut talks, you should listen to it." Especially when it talked about people.

"Is your gut telling you Fenbrand's our spy?"

"It's certainly telling me we need to look into the issue some more."

Algrin waved at the just-closed door. "And what's your gut telling you about Godhild?"

"It's telling me she's a pain-in-the-ass I'd love to get rid of, but that was already the case before this came up."

"Oh, so you don't like her, then?"

"Not really, no. She's good at her job, exceptionally good when she puts her mind to it, but she stirs up a lot of trouble within the team. Sets people against each other. Some days, it's like adult daycare. Can be pretty exhausting." If he'd wanted to deal with pig-headed people who took pleasure in picking fights and turned people against each other, he would never have resigned from the Army.

"Why haven't you just fired her, then?"

Why indeed. He'd been asking himself that question for weeks. "I had this silly idea that if I gave her some support and guidance, she might sort herself out. Grow up, leave the childish bullshit behind."

Algrin smiled. "The King's not the only one with a soft side, I think."

"Just don't tell anyone, please?" Fastmer pleaded. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"So, what on earth do we do now?"

"Now, I think we look into what Godhild told us. We know Fenbrand likes to gather gossip. Let's continue with the interviews, see what other people tell us. Godhild's only one voice, we need a few more. And if other fingers point at Fenbrand as well, let's dig a bit further, see if we can figure out who he's gathering gossip _for_."

"And if we don't find anything incriminating? What do we do then?"

"We start pulling people's financial records." It wouldn't be easy—it would take them forever—but in the end, it might be the only solution.

"Speaking of that, do you want me to put in a warrant for Godhild, or are you satisfied with her explanation?" Algrin said. "It takes a few days. If I submit the request tomorrow, I should have it sometime next week."

Fastmer mulled the question. "Yes," he eventually decided. "Go ahead with that. Let's do it. Just to be safe."

She'd given them an explanation. But the cynic in him wasn't buying it yet.

Her dad was at the end of the garden, slowly pacing up and down, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand, a sheaf of handwritten notes in the other.

"Dinner's about to go out," she said. "I'm here to give you the five minute warning."

He threw the cigarette on the ground and stamped on it to stub it out. "What are we having?"

"Not sure. Hedwin made it. Some Gondorian thing with chicken." She gestured at the notes. "What the hell are those?" she said.

"These"—he waved the papers at her—"are the text of the speech I'm giving tomorrow."

The rebuttal speech, of course. "Not the whole thing, I hope?" It was only a couple of pages; if that was his text, his speech would barely last ten minutes.

He shook his head. "This is just the main points. I have the full version of what I'm going to say up here," he said, tapping the side of his head. "But I use my notes to keep me straight."

"I don't know how you do it," she said. "Whenever I have to give a speech, I always have it laid out perfectly in my head, then, as soon as I stand up to talk, it all goes to shit."

"Practice," he said. "Plus, not giving a shit what anyone who's listening thinks. I find that gets you through even the worst speech-giving occasion."

She would have to try that, the next time she had a speech to give, see if it worked better than the 'imagine everyone naked' advice. "How are you feeling about it?"

"Pretty good. A little nervous, of course, but I think my counterpoints are solid."

"Solid enough to take the whole petition down?"

"I hope so, yes."

She realized, then, she could tell him something that might help a little—something she'd heard on Sunday morning, but completely forgotten about. Something he couldn't possibly know already. And now, thanks to the whole Brendal thing, she had the perfect cover story. "I, um, I heard something that might actually help. Another counterpoint of sorts."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You remember, when she was giving her speech, the Countess made a big song and dance about how irresponsible the King is because he likes to go racing?"

"Uh huh?"

"Turns out, he's given that up."

"Really?" he said.

She nodded. "Apparently, so many people shouted at him about it, he decided it would be better if he stopped. He's going to stick to regular riding from now on instead."

"Can I assume you heard that from everyone's favourite bike mechanic?" he asked with a knowing smile.

She smiled and batted her lashes. "I couldn't possibly comment."

"Should he, though? Have shared that with you, I mean? It's not violating some kind of confidentiality clause?"

She hadn't thought about that. Brendal had mentioned a contract clause, back on the day she'd first gone to the Palace, so yes, it probably was. If he'd even been the one who told her, of course. Maybe Colwenna didn't have the same clause. Or a contract at all, for that matter. It would be a brave lawyer indeed who tried to tell Colwenna what she could or couldn't do. "Probably. But I won't rat him in if you won't."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"You think you can work it into your speech?"

"Maybe, but if I'm being honest, I'm not sure I even should."

"Why not?"

He folded his notes and stuck them in his back pocket. "Because it's going to be a public speech. And what Brendal told you isn't public knowledge. If I mention it, everyone in the Palace is going to wonder how the hell I found out."

"I doubt the King would care." Especially if her dad used the information to defeat the petition. "It's not as if it's information about his love life. And maybe it _should_ be public knowledge. People should know he's being responsible now."

"I suppose so, yes." But he didn't sound convinced.

Soft footsteps crunched on gravel. A few seconds later, Erland appeared from behind a hedge. He flapped his arms, exasperated. "Are you guys going to stay out here and gossip all night, or are you going to come in for dinner?"

"We're coming in, yes." Their dad leaned over to pick up his discarded cigarette butt. "It's all your sister's fault. I wouldn't be gossiping at all if she didn't have interesting gossip to share."

Erland sighed. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Brendal told her something about the King she thought might help me with my speech tomorrow," their dad explained. "She was bringing me up to speed."

"Really?" said Erland. He turned to give her a disapproving look. "That doesn't seem like something Brendal would do."

She heard the warning—don't go too deep into her Brendal cover story. "It was just something about the King's bikes. Not something about his private life."

"Still. Might be better if he didn't do it again." Another hidden warning. Erland gestured back to the house. "Let's go eat before Nediriel locks the back door."

Two hours later, she was down at the end of the garden again, drinking in the warm evening air over the remains of her wine.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel, with the same weight and pace as before. "If you're here to smoke a sneaky joint, bugger off and go somewhere else," she warned. "I want my air to be weed-free tonight."

Erland plopped onto the terrace wall beside her. "No joints, sneaky or otherwise, I promise. I just needed to get out of the house." He sighed. "Astalor's having a snit."

Another one, Bema. So far, Astalor's twenties were proving to be worse than his teens. "What's it about this time?"

"Dad suggested to Nediriel they should trade in her car, buy her that convertible she's been talking about. Astalor started whining about not having a car of his own. It escalated from there."

"Don't see why he's even whining. Dad didn't buy you a car until you were twenty-five. And he's never bought me one at all."

"That's because you haven't been here. Hard to buy a car for someone when they're living in another country."

"True. And not like I need one anyway. The bike gets me around just fine." She finished her wine. "You think Astalor's always going to be like this? Whiny, I mean?" She hoped not. He was a decent person underneath, but the whining got a little bit tedious after a while.

"He's only twenty-two. And he's the baby of the family, so he's still in his larval stage. I'm sure he'll be fine once he pupates." He smirked. "I doubt we were any better."

She huffed. "Speak for yourself. I don't remember ever being as whiny as that."

"I shouldn't remind you of the pizza throwing incident, then?"

"That was different. What dad said, he absolutely deserved it." They'd still never bothered to paint over the light stain on the ceiling. If she looked closely enough, she could still see the grease-fixed pattern of the sausage slices. "And I was angry, not whiny. There's a difference," she said.

"Speaking of dad deserving things, I think you should be careful how much you tell him under your Brendal cover."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, don't use Brendal to explain to dad how you know things that came from the King," he said.

"It wasn't anything controversial. And I thought it might help dad with his speech."

"I know that. But I also know what dad's like. The more you tell him, the more points of reference you give him, the higher the chance he'll find a hole in your story."

She hadn't thought about it like that. "I shouldn't tell him anything about Brendal, then?"

He shook his head. "Remember what granny used to say about how to lie well. Say as little as possible, never over-explain, and only—"

"Only lie when you have something to gain," she finished. Which she hadn't tonight, not really. Other than her father's love and approval, of course. Which she was quite sure she would always have, regardless of what she did or didn't tell him. "I just wanted to help, give him something else for his speech."

"I know you did. But sometimes, when you help dad, he comes back to bite you on the ass in ways you never expect."

"I'm sure it's fine. All I did was tell him one tiny thing. I can't see how he'll ever make a problem of it."

Duncan closed his office door, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

He scrolled through his Contacts list until he found Brendal's number. Thank Bema he'd been able get it from Haradoc—asking Solly would have made her suspicious. Not entirely without cause, of course. He should really tell her what he was doing, but he already knew what her answer would be. And it was silly, really. She liked to keep her private life private, which he understood, but everyone knew Brendal already, so there was nothing to really be private about. A quick call would take care of that.

He pressed the button to start the call.

Brendal answered after three rings. "Hi, this is Brendal," he said.

"Brendal, hi, this is Duncan Hamelmark calling."

Silence.

"Solwen's dad?" Duncan prompted.

"Of course, yes, sorry, my brain just lost me for a moment there. Hi, how are you?"

"I'm very well. And you?"

"I'm great, thank you. But what can I do for you today?" Brendal said in a wary tone. Understandable—it wasn't every night of the week your new girlfriend's father called you at home. He was probably worried Duncan was about to give the whole 'I have a gun and a shovel' speech. Which he still might, on Saturday, depending on how the night went. Assuming Haradoc didn't beat him to it, of course. Although, Haradoc might do the 'shotgun and plastic sheet' version instead.

"It's actually more about what I can do for you," Duncan said.

"Oh? How's that?"

"I was wondering— _we_ were wondering—if you're not busy on Saturday night, would you like to join us all for Solstice dinner?"

"I, um, I think, um, that would be, um"–a pause and a sigh—"I'd love to, yes."

"Great. You know where we live, right?"

"I do."

"Say, about six-thirty? I think dinner's going out at seven, but it'll give you a chance to meet everyone first."

Another pause. "Everyone?" Brendal almost squeaked.

He should maybe have started with the guest list. "It's not that many people, don't panic. Just our five, plus my ex-wife's two younger boys. They're coming to Edoras for a work thing, so they're staying with us for a couple of days. Oh, and Haradoc as well. But you know him already, so there shouldn't be any problem there."

"Of course not. No problem at all."

"We'll see you on Saturday then?"

"You certainly will."

"Great. We'll talk more then. You enjoy the rest of the week."

Enjoy the rest of his week. Not bloody likely. Not now, knowing what was coming at the weekend.

Brendal mentally kicked himself. Then mentally punched himself in the balls as well, just for good measure. What the _hell_ had he even been thinking? Why the hell was it, whenever someone put him on the spot for a social event, he never knew how to say 'no'?

Solstice dinner with the Hamelmarks, Bema. What kind of gift did you take when your host was an _earl_?

And never mind the Hamelmarks—it was dinner with Haradoc as well. He could just hear now how that would unfold. _So, tell me, how are you enjoying having sex with my only granddaughter? Oh, and could you pass the salt? Thanks ever so much. By the way, did I ever tell you, how many shotguns and rabid dogs I own?_

How much life insurance did he still have? He'd bought some, through work, a few years ago, but he couldn't remember how much.

He should go to the admin office and find out tomorrow…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the rebuttal speech. I have it all plotted out in my head, but it's a LOT of detail, so it's going to take me a while to write it out properly. I promise, it'll be worth it in the end :)


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elfhelm visits his parents, Duncan makes a last-minute addition to his plan, Solwen has some company to watch the rebuttal.

**Thursday June 18, 2020**

He couldn't find his father at all, but his mother was in the morning room, flicking through a magazine while she sipped tea from a fine china cup.

As always, she was dressed to the nines. Elfhelm couldn't remember when he'd last seen his mother with her glamorous blonde hairdo undone, or wearing anything other than the smartest and most expensive of clothes. Did the cultivated Aldona Elgoll even own a pair of sweat pants, he wondered? Probably not; even her casual lounging clothes would be posh. Not that he could fault her choices. When one was the well-born, beautiful wife of the kingdom's wealthiest earl, one absolutely did not slum it, not even in the privacy of one's own home.

And it wasn't as if he was any better himself. He wasn't quite as meticulous with his clothes as his mother, but he'd definitely inherited his sartorial talents from her. He hadn't earned two nominations for _Edoras_ magazine's 'Best Dressed' award by loping around in ratty old t-shirts and shorts.

"Is there enough tea in that pot for me?" he said, striding into the room. "Or should I ask Rumon to make another one for us?"

She looked up at the sound of his voice, showing him a welcoming smile. She rose from her chair, setting her tea and magazine aside. Arms wide, she came to greet him, pulling him into a decorous hug, then giving him an elegant motherly kiss on each cheek, complete with overdone air-kissing noises. Frowning at him, she pulled away.

Elfhelm tensed. "What's wrong?" he said. Was she about to tell him his trousers didn't go with his shirt?

Still frowning, she laid the back of a perfectly manicured hand against his forehead. The gemstones in her wedding band pressed into his skin.

"Mama, what on _earth_ are you doing?"

"Checking if you have a fever," she said.

"Why on earth would I have a fever?"

"Because it's not even eight o'clock yet, and not only are you awake and out of bed, you've washed, dressed and left your apartment." She wetted a thumb to wipe some lipstick from his cheek. "Which means, either you're delirious, or you're in some kind of trouble."

"It's fine, mama. I'm not delirious. And I'm not in trouble either, I promise." He escorted her back to her seat, pushing it in as she sat, then slipped out of his leather jacket and hung it around a neighbouring chair.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of my firstborn's presence this morning, then?" She grabbed the pot to pour him some tea. "Not that I object to you dropping in unannounced, of course. But it's not something you're in the habit of doing."

Her ladylike way of reminding him he didn't visit as much he should. Which, admittedly, he didn't. But neither did Cennie—that was just how adult children were. "I actually came to see dad," he said. "To wish him luck for today's proceedings, let him know I might stop by to see what happens." But his father was nowhere to be seen, and there was only food on the table for one. "He hasn't left already, has he?" The Hall wouldn't go in until nine; perhaps he'd had some pre-session meetings to deal with.

His mother refilled her own cup. "He hasn't left yet." She sighed. "He's in the greenhouse right now."

In the greenhouse. Which everyone in the house knew meant 'His Lordship needs some quiet time and shouldn't be bothered unless someone important has died'. Nobody went into the greenhouse when his father was tending his orchids. Not even his mother or his grandmother.

"Something's bothering him?" Elfhelm asked.

She nodded. "This damn rebuttal thing today. It's weighing on him, he's not sleeping well."

Not the only one, Elfhelm was willing to bet. If his father was fretting, his mother would be as well. "I had no idea."

"You _might_ have an idea, if you came to visit more often."

After clothes, guilt trips were her second best talent, it seemed. Ignoring her remark, he asked, "What's he so worried about?" As she started to answer, he held up a hand. "Not in a general sense. I know the petition's a problem, and I know he's concerned for the King." He grabbed a piece of toast from the rack. Crustless, as always; nothing as gauche as a crust was ever allowed in this house. "But I'm sure the rebuttal's in capable hands."

She looked at him askance. "You _do_ know, who's giving it, don't you?"

He nodded as he buttered his toast. "The Countess of Darkfald first, the Earl of Hamelmark after." The King had told him that when they'd spoken on Sunday. Along with a some interesting things about his breakfast date with Solwen. He couldn't believe Solwen and Eomer still hadn't done the deed. For His Majesty, leaving the fun stuff to a third date was a saint-like level of restraint.

"That's the part that's bothering your father the most. The Earl of Hamelmark being involved, I mean. Bema only knows what he's going to get up and say."

"I'm sure Erella has it in hand."

She let out an elegant snort. "Your father called her last night, she'd just spoken to Hamelmark, she still doesn't know what he's going to do. She's as nervous about his speech as we are."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Elfhelm said, trying to convince himself as much as her. "I'm sure it'll all be fine in the end."

She grabbed a piece of toast herself. "It's given your father a very serious case of buyer's remorse. It's why he's been in the greenhouse most of the week. He was going to speak after Erella, you know. That was his plan, to be her second. She persuaded him to step aside, let Hamelmark be her second instead."

So, it wasn't just the rebuttal keeping his father awake—he'd also taken a dent to his professional pride. "Mama, you know as well as I do, dad wouldn't have anything helpful to say," Elfhelm said, in the kindest tone he could summon.

"He would stand up and defend the King." Furiously, she buttered her toast. "Remind everyone what a good job His Majesty's doing, show everyone how loyal our family is to the Crown." Butter done, her knife plunged into the jam. "Something some other people in the Hall could do with trying themselves."

One of them being her older sister's husband, of course. He couldn't imagine Uncle Jothren's decision to support the petition was doing much for family relations right now. "Defending Eomer isn't enough," he said. "It's a lovely idea, something all of us would be happy to do, but whoever gives the rebuttal, they need to undermine the petition as well. And dad doesn't know how to do that. Not really." His father meant well, had a good, kind, decent heart and a sensible, well-ordered mind, but he lacked both the ability and the killer instinct to be a truly effective political player. The best role for him was the one he was already in—the Hall's moral and social leader. "Stepping aside to let Hamelmark speak was probably the best thing to do."

She sighed. "I know Hamelmark's not a bad man, he's not like Camelor, thank Bema. I just wish he wasn't such a loose cannon."

"He wouldn't be a Hamelmark if he wasn't."

"Cenefer told us you know the daughter," she said. "Said when you were all introduced at the party last week, the two of you had already met."

Cenefer and her snitching habits. Could she not have kept her mouth shut for once? "I met her before the party, yes." He just hoped his mother wouldn't ask where. "But only once, for all of ten minutes. I'd hardly say that qualifies as knowing someone."

"She's not a friend, then?"

Good question. Were he and Solwen friends yet, or were they just acquaintances for now? Whatever they were, their families weren't exactly close, and his mother had a bee in her bonnet about her father, so best to stick to a neutral response. "Not really, no."

"Pity. If she was, you could call her, ask her if she knows what the _hell_ her father is planning."

He could ask Elisend to call her, but given Uncle Jothren's position, that might not be a good way to go. "I'm quite sure she wouldn't tell me anyway. They strike me as being a rather secretive bunch."

She sniffed and nibbled on her toast. "Secretive wasn't the word I had in mind. Disruptive was where I was going."

He needed to nip this in the bud, persuade his parents to adopt a less hostile view of the Hamelmarks, for Eomer's sake, as much as his own. A friendly view was maybe too much to ask right now, but he should try for a neutral outlook at least. "Mama?" he said.

"What, dear?"

"Can I ask a favour?"

"That depends. Does it involve a large sum of money?" she asked with a knowing smile.

She was never going to let him forget that. "Not this time, no. I just need you to do something for me. Without asking why."

"What's that?"

"Could you maybe be a little less unkind to the Hamelmarks, please? I know you and dad don't like them—"

"That's not true at all," she said, defensive. "We don't dislike them. They're just different people from us. We don't have anything in common with them."

Apart from being Rohanese, rich and Landed, of course. But maybe that wasn't enough. "Okay, maybe 'dislike' is too strong a word. But can you maybe ease off on the disapproval? Give them a _tiny_ bit of a break?"

"Why on earth are you asking for that?"

"I can't explain. Just trust me, okay?"

She put down her toast to sip her tea. "Cenefer mentioned this, you know."

"Sorry?"

"She said you seemed a little protective of the Hamelmarks. Last week, at the naming party. She told me if it wasn't for the fact you like men, she would think you had a thing for the daughter."

"I wasn't being protective of them at all." And he was never, _ever_ speaking to his sister again. "I just didn't like the way Cenefer was talking about them."

Brows knitting, she laid her hand over his. "Darling, are you sure there isn't something more going on?"

Yes, there absolutely was, but precisely what, he couldn't say yet. This was one secret he had absolutely no intention of blabbing. If he told _anyone_ who his best friend was dating, even the parents who treated Eomer almost like a second son, Eomer would skin him alive and hang what was left of his body on the Palace main gates. "Mama, I promise, there's nothing more going on. I'm just asking you to do something nice. Something that won't cause you any trouble at all. Something that might even come back to you later in a good way."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"I can't explain. You'll just have to wait and see. It'll be worth it in the end, I promise."

Nediriel walked him to the front door. "Got everything?" she asked. "Keys, wallet, security pass? Your plan for taking over the world?"

Grinning, Duncan tapped his coat pocket. "All in here."

"You better get to it, then." She held his satchel out. "That rebuttal speech won't give itself."

"You sure you don't want to come watch me give it?" He suspected Solwen would, and maybe even Erland as well—his son's office was barely a block away from the Hall.

She nodded. "Not that I don't support you, but I'd rather not. It's too hard on my nerves. I'd rather just wait for it to be done, have someone tell me how it all worked out."

"You'll be missing quite a show," he warned. "Things could get a little bit heated."

"Just not _too_ heated, I hope." She did up the buttons on his suit jacket. "No swearing at people or calling them names. Keep it civilized and clean."

"No promises, but I'll do my best."

"And it's back to normal after this, right? No more staying up past midnight working?"

He leaned in to give her a gentle kiss. "I might have to stay up past midnight tonight," he murmured. "But for an entirely more enjoyable reason. Assuming Her Ladyship doesn't mind kept awake, of course."

She smiled against his mouth. "Her Ladyship might be quite amenable to that."

Grinning, he took his satchel. "I have to go. Don't want to be late."

"Good luck." She raised a warning finger. "And remember, _behave_. Don't do anything that'll leave me having to apologize to everyone we know."

"I'll be a good boy, I promise."

Just not in the way she meant…

They cornered him at the mid-morning break, striding towards him with grimly solemn looks on their faces, as if they were coming to tell him someone had died. Erella Darkfald leading, Tommen Elgoll a few steps behind.

Jonrick nudged his arm. "I think you're in trouble," he said. "Looks like the Serious Squad are coming for you."

Duncan smiled as the 'squad' arrived. "Erella, Tommen"—he gave each colleague a courteous nod—"good morning, how are you?" he said.

Erella crossed her arms at him. "I'd be better if I knew what the _hell_ you were planning."

"Sorry?"

Clearing his throat, Tommen stepped in. "We're a little concerned about what your speech is going to cover," he said. "It would be quite helpful if you could tell us what approach you're going to take." He gestured at Erella. "In case the Countess needs to use her speech to lay any groundwork for you."

Duncan thought that highly unlikely. But it wasn't the only reason he wasn't going to meet their request. "If I tell you what I'm going to do, you won't let me do it."

"Dammit, Duncan," Erella said, making a face, flapping her hands in frustration, "you told me you weren't going to do anything crazy."

"I'm not going to do anything crazy. But you _still_ won't like it, so I don't see the point in discussing it with you."

Tommen sighed. "Lord Hamelmark, this is _highly_ improper. It's not supposed to be how we work. There are standards we're supposed to follow."

It was a struggle not to roll his eyes. Standards, Bema. Tommen would be reminding him to be kind to animals and old ladies next. "Lord Elgoll, do you want us to beat this petition or not?"

"Of course I do."

"Then, shut up and leave me alone."

Tommen jerked back, stung.

"I'm sorry if that sounds blunt," Duncan said, remembering Nediriel's warning. "But we don't have time or room for standards today. I'm a politician, which means when I'm not smiling and shaking someone's hand, I'm slipping a knife between their ribs. We need to take this petition down, cleanly and completely. I can do that"—he waved to Erella—" _we_ can do that, if you just get out of my way and let me."

His colleagues fell silent, scowling as they considered his words. Erella shot a sullen look at Tommen, who gave the slightest of nods.

"Don't fuck this up," Erella warned.

"I won't, I promise." A figure at the other side of the lobby caught Duncan's eye—a young man he needed to speak to ASAP. Duncan smiled, wrapping things up. "Now, if there's nothing else, you'll need to excuse me. I want to speak to the Earl of Roxbrunde before we go in." Nodding politely, he strode between his colleagues, jogging after his target, who was now halfway down the hall that led to the annex office building.

"Lord Roxbrunde," Duncan called out down the hall, slowing his jog to a quick walk.

The Earl of Roxbrunde stopped and looked round, showing a polite but quizzical smile. "Lord Hamelmark," he said, cautious but friendly. "Good morning, how are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you, My Lord. And you?"

"I'm excellent, thank you. Is there something I could help you with?"

Duncan nodded. "There is, yes." Now, how to say what he wanted to say. "I, um, you might have heard, I'm giving the rebuttal to the Colafell petition today. I just wanted you to know, I was planning to mention you in my speech." Quickly he added, "Not in a disrespectful manner. Not a personal attack of any kind." Unlike the comments he was going to send Keveleok's way. "I'm just going to make a factual point about the Hall that touches on your age. Is that alright?"

"Of course," said Roxbrunde, smiling. "Whatever you need to say, please, go ahead and say it." He leaned in close. "Just don't tell my mother I told you that," he whispered. "She would skin me alive."

Duncan added the Dowager Countess of Roxbrunde to his 'People To Keep An Eye On' list. "Really?"

Roxbrunde nodded eagerly, bouncing slightly on his feet, reminding Duncan of the golden retriever he'd had as a child. "She told me to stay away from you, not listen to anything you have to say. She thinks you're a troublemaker." He leaned in again to add, "But I don't. I think what you do in the Hall is _amazing_."

Finally, some recognition. From a twenty-one-year-old, no less. "I’m not sure most of the other Lords would agree, but thank you. I appreciate that."

"Is there anything I can do to help? With the rebuttal, I mean?"

Interesting. The Roxbrundes had always aligned themselves with the more conservative side of the hall (hence, the Dowager Countess's advice to her son), but maybe that was about to change. "I take it that means you don't approve of what Lady Keveleok's doing?" Duncan said.

Roxbrunde shook his head. "Not at all, no. I don't want to get rid of the King. His Majesty invited me to lunch last year, after my father died," he said, going quiet. His frown relaxed into a smile. "He was really nice. Gave me lots of useful advice about how to balance school with my title and duties."

The King would certainly know a thing or two about that, given how painfully young he'd been when he'd come into the Aldburg title. "That's good to know. And thank you, but I think I have everything with the rebuttal in hand."

Or did he?

There was that one part of his speech he'd considered, but written off as being too hard to predict. Could His Lordship help? He was smart, and eager to make his mark, so why the hell not? "Actually, I take that back," Duncan said. "There might be a way you can help, if you think you're up to it."

Roxbrunde's face lit up. "Of course. Anything. You just have to ask."

They shouldn't discuss it out in the open. Duncan slid his arm around Roxbrunde's back, steering him towards the terrace. He could have a cigarette while they talked. "Why don't we go outside to chat?"

She sat in the same seat as before, in the first row, straight across from her dad. He would see her every time he looked up.

She checked her watch; twelve-fifty precisely. The afternoon session would start in ten minutes. Her heart started to pound; she wasn't sure why. Her dad wouldn't speak right away—the Countess of Darkfald would do her piece first—so she wouldn't see what she'd come here to see for at least thirty minutes.

Shoes squeaked on the wooden stairs. She turned her head to find Elfhelm of Elgoll on his way down. He saw her, grinned, gave a small wave and made his way to the front row, choosing the seat on her left.

"The hell are you doing here?" she whispered.

"The same thing as you," he whispered back. "I've come to watch the debate, give my dad some moral support."

"I didn't think your dad was speaking."

"He isn't. But he's rather nervous about who is."

He obviously didn't mean Erella—she would do her usual fantastic job. "There's nothing to worry about. My dad's not going to do anything stupid."

"You'll forgive me if I'm not convinced."

"You can be whatever you want, My Lord," she said. "It's not my job to tell you what to think."

"Well, aren't we quite the charmer today? What's the matter? Feeling a little bit nervous?"

"The hell would I be nervous about?"

"I hear you had a nice breakfast on Sunday," he said, as if he was discussing the weather. "And that you have another date tonight."

"I did, and I do. What about it?" she said.

He shrugged and took out his phone. "It's just nice, that's all. That things are working out so far." A side of his mouth curled up. "I'm sure your date tonight will be _wonderful_ fun."

He'd obviously talked to Eomer—what the _hell_ had His Majesty said? "I don't know what you mean by that, but what happens on our dates is none of your fucking business."

He tutted and shot her a glare. " _Language_ , Lady Solwen. You're in the Hall of Lords, remember? Comport yourself appropriately, please."

She was about to tell him exactly how she was going to comport herself when shoes clomped on the wooden stairs again. To her surprise, the new arrival was Erland. He was in his work suit, and had a heavy binder full of papers tucked under his arm. He smiled as he saw her, and jogged down to join her, taking the seat on her right.

"I guess it hasn't started yet?" he whispered as he sat, nodding at the empty seats down below.

"Not yet." She checked her watch again. "Still a couple of minutes." Some introductions were in order—she was painfully aware of Elfhelm trying not to ogle her brother. She leaned back in her chair, letting the two men have a look at each other. She waved from right to left. "Erland, this is Elfhelm, the heir to the earldom of Elgoll." From left to right. "Elfhelm, this is my older half-brother, Erland, the heir to the earldom of Hamelmark."

Erland's smile was cautious, but warm. "Nice to meet you," he said stretching in front of Solwen to hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet you, too," Elfhelm said, showing a warm smile of his own, taking the hand to give it a shake. "I assume you're here to watch the rebuttal being given?"

Erland nodded. "Wasn't going to, but I decided I couldn't pass up the chance to watch it go down."

"Okay, but aren't you supposed to be at work right now?" Solwen said. "What the hell did you tell your boss?"

"Didn't tell him anything. I put a two hour block in my calendar, added a bullshit description, told everyone I was going to a meeting." He wielded the binder. "Why I brought this. Makes the lie look more convincing." He pushed the binder under the chair.

Elfhelm sighed and shook his head. "I would say I'm shocked, My Lord, but then I remember what your name is."

"Okay, you can shut the fuck up whenever you want," Solwen warned.

Erland blinked, surprised.

"Don't worry, it's fine," Solwen said, waving Erland off. "We've met before. I'm allowed to verbally abuse him."

"I quite like it actually," Elfhelm whispered to Erland behind Solwen's head. "At least I always know how she really feels about me."

Erland grinned. "She's, uh, she's certainly good for that, yeah."

"And what about you, My Lord? Is brutal honesty something you're good for as well?"

"Not really, no. I tend to take a more tactful approach. I, uh, my talents are in other places."

Solwen wanted to clamp her hands to her ears; Eru and all the Maiar save her. Barely two minutes, and they were already flirting. She was quite sure if she turned enough to see their faces, they would be furiously eye-fucking each other.

And if that was the best Erland could do for a chat-up line, no wonder his love life was such a disaster. 'Talents in other places', really. He might as well just tell Elfhelm he gave really good head…

A movement at the opposite side of the balcony caught Solwen's eye. A woman was making her way down the stairs, carefully, one high-heel clad foot at a time, holding the banister with one hand. And an extremely attractive woman at that—mid-thirties, tall and slim, with wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing the chicest two piece trouser suit Solwen had ever seen. She was suddenly horribly self-conscious about her own comfortable shirt and jeans.

"Well, well, well," Elfhelm murmured. "Would you look at what the cat dragged in?"

"You know who that is?" Solwen asked, thinking absolutely nothing about the woman looked 'dragged'.

"I certainly do. It's the Countess of Camelor. Seorsa. Soon-to-be ex-Countess, I should add."

"The one Camelor's divorcing?" She wasn't up on Edoras gossip, so that was as much as she knew.

"That's right."

"Why the hell is she here? Camelor isn't speaking today. He's not even a second on the petition."

Elfhelm shrugged. "No idea. You'd have to ask her."

The bell let out three gentle chimes—the signal for the Lords to return to their seats. The heavy doors creaked open, and the Earls of Rohan slowly filed in. Their dad was one of the last to appear, sauntering towards his seat as if he didn't have a care in the world. He'd worn his most expensive suit—Nediriel's influence, no doubt.

"Here we go," Erland murmured. "The fun's about to begin."


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan gives his speech to the Hall.

Solemn-faced, the Countess of Darkfald scanned the Hall. "Honoured colleagues, on these grounds, I strongly recommend you vote to reject Miss Colafell's petition." Pausing to give the Custodian a courteous nod, she tucked her skirt and retook her seat.

An approving murmur ran through the Hall; a few Lords even stamped their feet. A comforting sound, but Duncan knew better than to assume the approval was for the Countess's recommendations; it could just as easily be for the Countess herself. Or, the Hall might be thanking her for giving such a good presentation, for not pulling a Hereoch, and trying to bore them to death for twenty-five minutes. She certainly deserved the thanks. She'd held a good pace, hit all her main points, described her many legal concerns in a way that even a non-expert could follow, dropped a couple of safe but humorous jokes and wrapped it all up with a neat paper bow. She was going to be a hard act to follow.

The Custodian banged his rod, filling the room with a piercing, metallic clang that always jarred Duncan down to the bone. "Thank you, Lady Darkfald," he said, giving an equally courteous nod in return. He checked his notes; a stupid pretence—he knew exactly who was up next. "The Earl of Hamelmark will now provide the second opinion on the rebuttal."

A not-so-approving murmur now…

As he rose from his seat, Duncan had a brief moment of panic, of wondering what the _fuck_ he was doing. The speech he was about to give, he was sure it would defeat the petition (especially on top of what Erella had said), but it wouldn't win him any friends in the Hall. Quite the opposite, in fact. Was he about to make the biggest mistake of his life? Should he pull back, tone it down, maybe abandon some of his points completely? Would his other points be persuasive enough?

He looked up, and saw two familiar faces. Two precious, beautiful, wonderful faces—Solwen and Erland—sitting side-by-side in the front row. His kids had come to watch him speak. Not all of them, only two, but this wouldn't be Astalor's thing—he didn't have the attention span to listen to political sermons. And Bema, was that Tommen Elgoll's lad on Solly's left side? The one who was friends with the King? When and how the hell had _that_ happened?

Erland flipped him a snappy salute, Solly flashed him two thumbs up. And that was all he needed, to calm his last-minute nerves and remind him what he'd come here to do. He didn't care about winning new friends; he already had all the friends he needed. His children would want him to do what was right, not what people would like. They would love him, regardless of what he did next, even if he fucked this all up and went down in flames.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned to the Custodian's desk. "Thank you, My Lord." He turned to aim another nod at Erella. "And thank you to the Countess of Darkfald for giving us such an excellent overview of the legal issues at play. As always, her knowledge of Constitutional Law is an asset to the kingdom she serves."

Erella rolled her eyes slightly—more of a long, lazy blink—warning him to take it easy with the arse-kissing.

He scanned the Hall, up one side and down the other, gradually gathering gazes to him, waiting for the right moment to start. His notes were on his desk. But he wouldn't need them; he never did. Everything he was going to say was already neatly lined up in his head. Erella wasn't the only one who could give a good speech. This was what his mother had raised him to do, and he bloody well knew how to do it.

He took a deep breath. A switch inside his head clicked; his speech-giving mode kicked in.

Where the hell had everyone gone? Why was nobody at their desk? Even Fenbrand wasn't in his office—the man for whom the word 'workaholic' had been invented. Was there something happening in the Palace today? Some kind of party nobody had told him about, or maybe a special training event?

Sighing, Eomer strode down the Hall with Vonnal and Guthlaf trailing behind. Near the end of the hallway, he heard muffled voices coming from one of the conference rooms—the one with an eight person table, and a large-screen TV at the end. He strode to the door and pushed it in.

And there was Fenbrand, with a few of his people—Connet, Mareota and Gwinlen—all perched in various leather chairs, their eyes fixed on the television.

Shit. He'd just interrupted some kind of team meeting.

All eyes swivelled to him, chairs shot back as everyone instantly jumped to their feet, nodding to acknowledge their monarch's presence.

"Is there a football match on today?" Eomer said, smiling, mentally kicking himself, trying to make a joke of his interruption. "Or something fun I should be watching as well?"

Fenbrand cleared his throat. "No football match, sir, no." He gestured to the television, which Connet had paused. "We're watching the coverage from the Hall of Lords."

"Why the hell are you doing that?" Eomer looked around the table. "You can't be _that_ bored, surely?"

"It's coverage of the rebuttal, sir," Fenbrand quietly explained. "To Miss Colafell's petition."

Bema, of _course_. How could he have forgotten that? He checked the time—it was almost one-thirty, and the rebuttal had been scheduled to kick off at one. "Is it done? What happened? How did they vote?" he blurted, throwing the Crown Neutrality Clause to the wind. He didn't care about being neutral right now. And nobody here was going to call the cops on him.

"It's still underway, sir," Connet said. "The Countess of Darkfald has just finished her speech. The Earl of Hamelmark is about to give his."

The Earl of Hamelmark. His new girlfriend's dad. "Really?"

"Yes, sir."

One-thirty. And his schedule was free for another half hour. And Lord Hamelmark was almost certainly going to have some rather interesting things to say.

He made a decision, pulled out a chair. "Okay, then. Start her up. Let's see what His Lordship has to say."

"Honoured colleagues, I'm going to address two main points today, both entirely separate from the points Lady Darkfald touched on." Duncan stuck his hands in his pockets. "I’m going to tackle both with a fair bit of detail, so bear with me, please."

"The first point, the easiest, is something near and dear to all our hearts, namely, money." Duncan paused, checking for signs of early dissent, saw none, quickly moved on. "Let's say we vote to approve Miss Colafell's petition. Let's also say, in a moment of unrestrained enthusiasm, the House of Commons votes to approve it as well. How much will it cost the country to take the petition forward from here? To see it all the way through to what Miss Colafell would consider its rightful and proper conclusion?" He held up a correcting hand. "Actually, let me put that another way. How much will it cost the Rohanese people? Because let's be honest, that's who would foot the bill. How much will the ordinary people of Rohan, the ordinary _taxpaying_ people of Rohan, have to spend to see one wealthy, privileged twenty-year-old woman's personal ambitions fulfilled?"

He started to pace—it helped him to think—but he didn't have a lot of room, so he had to limit himself to a few steps. "I've done some basic research, and I'm sure you won't be surprised to know, the short answer is, quite a bit." He plucked an oversized spreadsheet printout from his desk, unfolded it and held it up for the Hall to see it. "This is the spreadsheet I put together, with some assistance from people in various government departments, listing all the implementation tasks we could think of, along with a rough cost estimate for each task. Everything from how much we're spending to even have this debate, all the way down to the cost of making up new business cards for almost a thousand KCs." All of whom would become QCs if Thenwis was given the throne. "I've even included how much it probably cost Miss Colafell to publish her petition."

Erella smiled. At least she appreciated his attention to detail.

Duncan turned the spreadsheet over to scan it. He had to squint to read the font; he should really have brought his reading glasses, but he could just about make out the text. "Here's a quick overview of the list, which I'm sure you'll understand, is nowhere near complete. To debate and vote on the petition in the Hall, one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. To debate and vote on the petition in the House, including one round of committee hearings, two point seven million pounds." A truly shocking amount of money. "To hold a nationwide referendum on the issue, anywhere from twelve to sixteen million pounds—"

Keveleok rose from her chair. "There's no need to hold a referendum on the issue, My Lord. Not if both chambers vote to approve the petition."

Duncan wagged a finger at her. "Except, there may be a need for a referendum, depending on how we interpret the, what is it—" frowning, he looked to Erella, prompting.

"The seventeenth clause," Erella provided.

Duncan smiled his thanks. "The seventeenth clause of the Constitution, concerning who has ultimate authority to determine possession of the Crown, whether Parliament has supremacy on the matter, or the people of Rohan do." His smile to Keveleok was cold but polite; he almost wanted to bat his eyelashes at her. "Which my honoured colleague would know, if she'd done her homework before she decided to support this petition."

The Custodian banged his rod. "You're wandering perilously close to making a personal attack, My Lord. I advise you to watch what you say."

He'd made his point; Duncan lowered his head, apologizing. "To hold a referendum, anywhere from twelve to sixteen million pounds," he repeated. "To have the Supreme Court settle the issue of the seventeenth clause, because it would definitely have to be settled, anywhere from four to six million pounds. To update the Constitution, and all related Laws and Articles of Succession, anywhere from two to three million pounds. To design and produce new banknotes and coins, fourteen to twenty million pounds. To design and produce new stamps, one to two million pounds. To update all national and regional coats of arms, two to three million pounds. To replace all post boxes, also two to three million pounds." Duncan put the spreadsheet down. "I won't bore you with any more details, but you can see how the costs will quickly add up. According to my numbers, which, admittedly, are both incomplete and so approximate they're verging on being wildly unscientific guesses, a low-end price tag is fifty to sixty million pounds."

Duncan paused to let the number sink in. "Just think about that. Fifty to sixty _million_ pounds. For _one_ person," he said, thrusting a finger in the air.

The Earl of Sunhold pushed to his feet. "But many of these items are costs we pay whenever there's a demise of the Crown, My Lord. Costs we paid when Theoden King died, and Eomer King succeeded." He shrugged. "I agree, it's a lot of money, but it's just the price of keeping the royal wheels running."

"You're quite correct," Duncan acknowledged. "Many of the items on my spreadsheet are costs we would incur in the natural course of a monarch's death. But the most expensive items are not. The most expensive items on my list are highly particular to this situation." He started to pace again. "And there's one particular cost we need to consider, a cost that could be truly massive." He ground to a halt, pausing, gathering gazes to him again. "The cost of deposing a reigning monarch. Of paying the King to give up his throne."

To Duncan's surprise, none other than Camelor rose. Finally, he was showing his colours, throwing his traitorous hat into the ring.

"Shit's about to get real," Erland murmured.

"Don't worry," Solwen whispered. "Camelor's good, but dad's even better. He'll find a way to hand him his arse on a plate."

Camelor smoothed down the front of his exquisitely tailored jacket. In a bored sounding voice he said, "The King has no employment contract with the Rohanese state, My Lord. Therefore, he would not be owed any form of compensation for termination of his rank and position." He smiled in that uniquely venomous way of his. "Something you would know if _you'd_ done _your_ homework before you decided to oppose this petition. If we deprive the King of the Crown, he would keep what belongs to him as an individual, but give up what belongs to him in his formal role as Head of State. Even you should know, it's as simple as that."

Duncan was going to remember this moment for a long time to come. It would bring him comfort in his old age. "Yes, except, it isn't. Not really," he said.

Camelor raised a doubting brow at him.

"Let me tell you why," Duncan announced to the Hall, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets again. "Lord Camelor is entirely correct when he says His Majesty would keep what belongs to him as an individual, what he owns as Eomer Eomundson, not as Eomer King." He paused for extra effect. "But are you aware, those personal belongings include the Honours of Rohan?"

A gasping murmur ran through the Hall. Not amusement, not disapproval. Shock, now, and disbelief.

Duncan raised a calming hand. "I know, it seems rather surprising, doesn't it? But it's true. When the Crown Estate was established, many items which had previously been the personal property of the House of Eorl were bound within it. The most notable items being the four royal residences and the Royal Collection, of course. But, for some reason, the Honours of Rohan were never alienated from the King." As he plucked another document from the pile, he flashed Camelor his best 'fuck you' smile. "This is a transcript of the Crown Estate Establishment Act of 1888"—he held the document up for the Hall to see—"which lays out the terms of the Estate's formation. It very clearly does _not_ include the Honours. And as no subsequent legislation has ever been introduced on the matter that I have been able to find, by default, the Honours remain the personal property of Folcwine King's legal heir and successor, namely, Eomer King."

Eomer jerked in shock. "Is that true?" he said to Fenbrand. "Do I _own_ the Honours of Rohan?"

Fenbrand's mouth was as close to hanging open as Eomer had ever seen. Eventually, he blinked and said, "I'm… I'm not entirely sure, Your Majesty. We would have to check."

"Jot that down," said Eomer, pointing to Connet, who had a pen and notepad in front of him on the desk. "Let's check that out. As soon as we can."

Connet nodded and picked up his pen to scribble a note.

Bema. If he owned the Honours, if all those Crowns and medals and fancy sticks and antique swords were _his_?

The money Grima had stolen from them eight years ago would literally be pocket change compared to what the Honours were worth…

Camelor had the sense to look alarmed.

Duncan turned his document to the next page. "I made a basic list of what the Honours of Rohan are. The State Crown, the Queen's Crown, the Small Crown, the Hunter's Crown, the Diadem of the Mark, the Sword of State, the Sovereign's Sceptre, the Sovereign's Rod"—both just fancy sticks; what the difference was between them, he still wasn't sure—"as well as twenty-eight other priceless, historic objects." He put the document down. "I asked various experts at the Royal Collection Trust how much the Honours are worth, and none of them could give me an answer. Not because they're not worth anything, of course, but because they're so valuable, nobody can put a price tag on them. Most reasonable estimates put the value at upwards of one _billion_ pounds." He paused to let that sink in. "The diamond in the State crown is worth eighty million pounds on its own. _One jewel_. And if we depose Eomer King, that entire billion pound collection would still belong to him. Thirty-six of our Kingdom's most treasured cultural items would be his to dispose of as and how he sees fit."

Frowning, the Earl of Strone rose. "But surely there would be a legal challenge?" he said. "Surely, the government would sue the King to retain the Honours?"

Duncan nodded. "Of course it would. And rightly so. But how long would that legal challenge take? And how much would it cost to fight it? It's almost a given the case would end up in the Supreme Court, which, you'll remember, has full judicial independence, so the government can't tell it what to do. And is there any guarantee the Court would rule against the King? Because here's the thing. My honoured colleagues were surprised by my announcement, but the people in charge of caring for the Honours actually knew about this. They've always known. They've apparently raised it with several governments departments over the last fifty years, but have always been told to shut up and go away, because it's not a pressing problem. If that's always been the government's stance, will the Court have any patience for it suddenly asserting ownership now? And what if the Court doesn't support the government's demand? What if the Supreme Court decides Eomer King is indeed the legal owner of the Honours? What happens then, if we kick him out? Do we let him keep them? Do we _buy_ them from him? Pay him a _billion_ pounds? Or, here's an interesting idea. Maybe we could _rent_ them from him?"

Duncan looked at his three main opponents—Keveleok, Romengar, Camelor—but none of them would meet his gaze. Small wonder. They didn't want to accept they'd all just been caught with their pants down. "Did any of my three honoured colleagues consider this when they decided to support Miss Colafell's petition?" He knew it was really only two, but he wanted Camelor to know he knew who was pulling the strings behind the scenes.

Sure enough, Camelor shot to his feet. "I am not involved in the promotion of this petition, My Lord," he said, indignant now. "If I speak, it's only because you've made a point I think needs to be corrected."

Duncan grimaced. "Apologies, My Lord," he said. "For some _ridiculous_ reason, I got it into my head that you were one of the people behind the petition." He paused just long enough to let his message sink in. "May the official record show, I fully acknowledge my error, and amend my remark."

"What the hell was all that about?" Erland said. "It's not like dad to make such a basic mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake at all," Solwen said. "That was dad warning Camelor he knows he's behind the petition."

" _Camelor's_ involved?" Elfhelm asked, astonished, listening in.

Solwen nodded. "Keveleok didn't start this. It was all Camelor's work. The arsehole's in this up to his balding, fat head."

Jaw twitching, Camelor nodded stiffly and sat down.

Duncan continued. "But let's imagine for a moment the Honours won't be an issue. That Eomer King would agree to gift them to the nation, without receiving so much as a penny in return."

"Not if you kick me out of my job, I bloody well won't," Eomer muttered.

Gwinlen turned to blink at him, showing a nervous, 'what-the-fuck' smile.

Dammit. He should probably have said that with his inside voice.

Duncan held up his cost spreadsheet again. "The fact remains, the cost of implementing this change, just at the government level, would be at _least_ fifty to sixty million pounds. And given how approximate my figures are, probably more like seventy to eighty." He slowly scanned the Hall, seeing some troubled faces now. "Even fifty million pounds is an awful lot of money. Money you're now asking the hard-working men and women of Rohan to spend?"

Keveleok shot out of her seat, eyes blazing, chin held high, ready to rebut his rebuttal. "You can't put a price tag on justice, My Lord," she said. "We should _never_ be afraid to do what is right just because it's going to cost us a large sum of money."

Duncan wanted to punch his fist in the air; settled for saying a silent prayer of thanks. "For once, Lady Keveleok, you and I are in complete and total agreement. We should never, _ever_ draw back from delivering justice just because of how much it will cost."

Frowning, Keveleok took a step back.

"Uh oh," Eomer said.

"Your Majesty?" said Fenbrand, frowning.

"I think the Earl of Hamelmark's about to do something naughty."

Not that Eomer cared if Solwen's father gave Keveleok a kicking.

He just wished he'd brought some popcorn with him…

Sighing, Duncan sifted through his papers until he found the item he needed. In a solemn voice, he said, "If only my honoured colleague had been of that opinion last year, when the Hall discussed this." He held up the item—a thick document bound in a folder with a clear plastic cover and a Rohan-green back. "This is Bill R19-162, otherwise known as The Emergency Funding of Judicial Services Bill."

His pacing resumed; three steps forward, three steps back. "For those of you who don't remember, the Home Secretary introduced this bill to the House of Commons in March last year. You see, the Supreme Court had just issued a ruling, stating any person charged with an indictable offence must be brought up for trial no later than three years from the date of their arrest. A fair ruling, I think, since justice delayed is often justice denied. The Court attached a clause to the ruling, specifically to address all cases which had either already passed the three year mark, or would pass it within the next three months. The clause required the government to resolve those cases by the end of last September. As you can imagine, this placed a sudden and enormous strain on our Crown Court system. Accommodating that strain came with an equally sudden and enormous bill."

Duncan turned to the page he'd marked out with a sticker. "The Justice Minister was asking for fifty-two million pounds of one-off, extra funding, to ensure everyone got their day in Court, and that no case would be allowed to lapse due to lack of time." He smiled at Keveleok. "Fifty-two. That's an awfully familiar number, isn't it?"

The Custodian's staff clanged down. "Lord Hamelmark, please get to the point," he thundered.

"My Lord, the point is, this bill"—Duncan raised the folder to shake it—"which was intended to provide emergency funding to an already over-burdened judicial system, this bill, which the House brought up and passed in the space of _two weeks_ , with only twenty-two votes in opposition, because even the Prime Minister's main opponents understood what a disaster it would be if it failed, this bill, with literally life-saving ramifications, faced so much opposition in the Hall, no fewer than _thirteen_ official delays, that we were unable to hold a vote to pass the bill before the parliamentary session expired. And the person who was most vociferous in their opposition was none other than my honored colleague, the Countess of Keveleok." He dropped the folder on his desk, picked up another piece of paper. "Her reasoning at the time was, and I quote from the official record, 'government departments must learn to use their funding carefully and efficiently, and to not treat the Rohanese taxpayer as their personal ATM.'" He lowered the sheet and looked round the Hall. "When the session expired, the bill died. The extra funding was denied."

"By the end of the grace period," Duncan went on, "only forty-five people had not yet been brought to trial. All of them instantly had their charges dropped, never to be raised or be raisable ever again." He turned his gaze Keveleok's way. "Including a young man named Wulfrick Osbourn."

Jonrick Amerwen let out a pained sigh. So did a few other people—the people who knew what Wulfrick Osbourn had done.

"For those of you who don't know that name, Wulfrick Osbourn was the primary and only suspect in the murder of two young women in Aldburg. Because of the horrific nature of the crimes, he was being held on special remand. As soon as the deadline to begin his trial expired, he was released. Two months later, he murdered another young woman. So, don't worry, he's back in custody now, awaiting trial all over again. But only for that single murder. The first two?" Duncan shook his head. "He's effective been cleared of those."

Out of nowhere, a fuzzy memory flashed, of Nemeshet, on their wedding day, laughing as she fed him some cake.

Then another, of her lying cold and dead on a stainless steel table.

He felt a bit faint. He took a breath, forced himself to look straight ahead. He couldn't look up. If he looked at Solly, if he saw his wee girl, he would lose it right here. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memories back. When he opened his eyes, Erella Darkfald was staring at him, her brows creased in concern. He gave her a smile and a nod, telling her not to worry.

He cleared his throat and continued. "When we talk about not putting a price on justice, what do we tell the relatives of the women Wulfrick Osbourn killed? What do we say to the family of the first two victims, who will never see anyone officially punished for their daughters' deaths? What do we say to the family of the third victim, whose daughter need never have died at all?" He turned to Keveleok. "Did it never occur to you, what impact your actions might have? What the end result of opposing that bill might be?"

Keveleok was ashen-faced; she looked as if she wanted someone to shoot her, or for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

The Custodian banged his rod. "Lord Hamelmark, once again, you are wandering perilously close to making a personal attack. This is my final warning. You will moderate your speech."

Duncan dipped his head. "Of course, My Lord. I withdraw my final remark."

Elfhelm blew out a breath. "I think someone should call the police," he said.

"Why?" said Erland.

"Because I'm pretty sure we just witnessed a murder."

"So, when we stand here, and talk about noble, lofty ideas, about justice, and honour, and doing the right thing because it deserves to be done, let's not pat ourselves on the back too much, because too be quite honest, sometimes, we're doing a _fucking_ terrible job."

As he'd expected, the rod came slamming down. "Lord Hamelmark, you will moderate your language, or I will have you thrown out!" the Custodian roared, going red in the face.

Duncan sighed and shook his head. "And there we are. We're more concerned about me swearing than we are about the fact our collective actions were at least partially responsible for a young woman being murdered. What a _truly_ fantastic system we have."

Lord Strone rose again. "Are you saying we should never say 'no' to anything? That we should always approve any Bill that comes to us for consideration?"

Bema give him strength. The man must be so busy shagging and cheating, he never had time to think. "What I'm saying, My Lord, is that we should be more sensible about how we spend the country's money." Duncan gestured to Keveleok. "The Countess was right. We shouldn't treat the Rohanese taxpayer as our personal ATM. No government department should. But if we won't spend it on something as important as our justice system, we certainly shouldn't spend it on something as frivolous as this petition." His gaze slid to the Earl of Roxbrunde, who twitched the slightest of nods. Duncan crossed his fingers and wound back the trap. "It's all very well for Miss Colafell to tell us she wants to be Queen, but she's not the one who'd be footing the bill to make all the changes."

Keveleok rose again; a sucker for a thrashing, it seemed. "Miss Colafell is a young woman of _very_ substantial means. I'm sure, if the cost was an issue, she and the government could come to some kind of arrangement."

The trap snapped shut.

Abelard Roxbrunde sprang to his feet. In a clear voice that perfectly balanced outrage with shock, he demanded, "Lady Keveleok, are you suggesting the Crown of Rohan is _for sale_?" If he'd been wearing pearls, he would have clutched them.

Eomer groaned and covered his face with his hands. It was honestly too painful to watch.

This next bit was going to be _bad_.

At least he'd been right about Abelard. Such a nice, good, down-to-earth lad…

Another murmur—drifting into anger this time.

The look on Keveleok's face would be something Duncan remembered for the rest of his life—a perfect mixture of anger, confusion and absolute, utter mortification. "Not at all, no," she said, red-faced and flustered now, trying to backtrack on her point. "I'm simply saying, Miss Colafell would likely choose not to burden our hardworking taxpayers with a cost they shouldn't have to bear." She forced a smile. "An excellent quality for a monarch, I think," she added, searching desperately for a way to polish the turd.

"That's not going to save her," Elfhelm murmured. "She'll need to do much better than that."

She certainly would. "You know what the scariest part of this is?" Solwen said.

"What?"

Solwen grinned. "This cost thing is only dad's first point. He still has a whole other point to debate."

"Bema."

"An excellent quality for a monarch, yes." Duncan smiled. "One I'd like to point out Eomer King has demonstrated as well. Whatever else you might accuse him off, you certainly can't accuse him of being an extravagant King. In fact, I believe he's been our cheapest monarch since records began."

"Is that true?" Eomer said to Fenbrand. "Am I cheap?"

Fenbrand sighed. "I wouldn't use that word myself, sir, but yes. Your reign has been extremely cost-effective."

"Huh."

Maybe he should spring for that new motorbike after all…

The Countess of Kereth rose. "That's probably because he doesn't have a wife and family to support. It's easy to be cost-effective when you're an unmarried man."

"Oh, _fuck_ you," Eomer shouted at the screen, putting the Kereths on his 'dead to me' list.

He looked around, seeing a table-full of astonished faces; Sorka looked as if she was going to cry.

Raising a hand, Eomer said, "My apologies. That was extremely inappropriate of me."

He made a mental note to ask Colwenna to buy some breakfast cakes for Fenbrand's team tomorrow…

"And speaking of what qualities His Majesty has," Duncan continued, ignoring Kereth completely, "I beg the Hall's indulgence to make another small point." He looked up, giving Solly the smallest of nods. She smiled and nodded back.

Duncan gestured to Keveleok. "You'll recall my honoured colleague asserted His Majesty is too irresponsible to be allowed to hold the Crown, on account of the fact he likes to race bikes." He blessed Her Ladyship with a smarmy smile. "I'm sure she'll be pleased to know, the King has fully acknowledged the danger racing poses to his health and wellbeing, and has therefore agreed to give it up."

Fenbrand turned to Eomer. "Is that true, Your Majesty? Have you given up racing?"

Eomer sighed. "Sadly, yes."

But how the hell had the Earl of Hamelmark found out? He couldn't recall telling Solwen about his decision. Had he told her, and he just didn't remember? Had someone else told her instead? Had she been talking to Brendal again?

Keveleok opened her mouth, but it was Romengar who shot to his feet. "Did the King tell you that himself?" he demanded, knowing fine well the answer was 'no'.

Duncan shook his head. "He didn't, no."

"Then it's hearsay," Romengar spat. "Not admissible in proceedings."

To Duncan's surprise, it was Tommen Elgoll who came to his defence. "I can second Lord Hamelmark's claim," Tommen stood up to announce. "His Majesty _has_ given up racing. _I_ have heard it from him directly."

And everyone in the Hall knew, if Tommen Elgoll said it was true, it was true.

Scowling at his brother-in-law, Jothren Romengar sat down.

Grinning, Erland leaned back to say to Elfhelm, "I think your dad just told a small lie."

"I _know_ my dad just told a small lie," Elfhelm replied. "The King told me he'd given up racing, but I hadn't told my parents yet."

"But just a small one," Solwen said. "Nothing worth losing any sleep over."

Duncan dipped his head at Tommen. "Thank you, My Lord." He shuffled some papers to one side of his desk—the papers relating to his first point, now all safely covered. "But I've talked enough on the issue of cost, so now, I'm going to address one of the two issues the Countess of Keveleok based her speech on last week, namely, justice. Or fairness, whatever word works best. The suggestion that Princess Thengwen was treated unfairly." Duncan shrugged. "And I'll be honest. I agree. I think she was. In my personal opinion, what her parents did to her was both unfair and unconscionable." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "But here's the thing."

Kereth got up again; no prizes for guessing which side of the petition she favoured. "Lord Hamelmark, if you're about to tell us the world isn't fair, please don't. You won't persuade anyone with corny platitudes and preaching."

Corny platitudes. As if. "The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," Duncan said. "You're right, it _isn't_ fair, but that's an argument I can't even use on my kids, never mind the Hall of Lords. I mean, my youngest, maybe, but certainly not my older two. If I wouldn't say it to either of them, I'm certainly not going to say it to you."

"What I _am_ going to tell you is, if we're going to base our vote on what's just and fair or what's not, we should take a very hard look at our own work first." He waved at Keveleok, aiming another sharp kick at her shins. "What was fair about shutting down that emergency funding bill?" Duncan demanded. "What was fair about allowing Wulfrick Osbourn to literally get away with murder? What was fair about expecting the sixteen thousand people who keep the Crown Court system running to work sixty hour weeks for six months straight with little or no additional compensation?" He turned his glare on the Earl of Northpont, trying to zone out in the back row. "How were we fair in March this year, when a member of this Hall tried to talk out a proposal to provide free school lunches to underprivileged children? On the basis, and I quote, 'the money will just end up in drug dens and brothels'? What was fair about us voting to increase our own daily allowance by five percent, while only increasing the minimum wage by three?"

The Custodian stepped in. "Lord Hamelmark, if you're about to give us a rundown of every decision the Hall has made that you think is unfair, please don't. Make your point, and move on, please."

Anger prickled up Duncan's neck. The Custodian was stepping over the mark, and he bloody well knew it. Duncan was halfway to telling the man to go fuck himself when Jonrick Amerwen pushed to his feet, perhaps sensing his closest friend was about to do something stupid. "Lord Hamelmark is giving a lawfully authorized rebuttal to a lawfully authorized petition," he told the Custodian. "The content and length of his speech are his to decide. You have no right to demand he curtail either one or the other."

"Go, Jonno," Erland murmured. "Give the mean, old bastard hell."

"I don't know Lord Amerwen," Elfhelm whispered to Solwen. "Is he a good man?"

"He's from the March. Of course he is."

Elfhelm rolled his eyes.

The Custodian glared at Jonrick for a few seconds, then gave Duncan the smallest and curtest of bows. "Continue, My Lord," was all he said.

"And if we're going to concern ourselves with fairness," Duncan went on, as if the Custodian had never interrupted at all, "perhaps we should take another long, hard look at the purpose and function of the Hall." He scanned around, moving from face to face, some bored, some wary, some disapproving, most paying careful attention. "We are the Hall of Lords. One half of the supreme legislative body of the Kingdom of Rohan. We, as its members, have the indisputable, constitutionally guaranteed right to decide what will or will not be legal for the Rohanese people, which proposals will or will not become law. An immense privilege, and one I have never, _ever_ taken for granted." He scanned around, seeing fewer disapproving faces. "And what did all of us do to earn this singular honour?" He paused. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. Except be born." He flapped his arms. "That's it. That's the only thing everyone here today had to do. Be _born_."

The Earl of Roxbrunde got to his feet. He looked so earnest, so eager to help, it made Duncan want to find a stick to throw for him. "Forgive me, My Lord," he said, showing a timid smile, "but I think you might be slightly wrong there. We didn't just have to be born. We also had to be born the oldest child, and for most of us, the oldest son."

Duncan smothered a grin; the lad was going to be a star in ten years. "Lord Roxbrunde, once again, you are quite correct. Thank you." He looked back to his fellow peers. "We had to be our parents' firstborn child. And yes, until six years ago, we had to be the firstborn son. So, we're not fair, even within our own exclusive system." He went to Keveleok, the oldest of four daughters, then realized Romengar was a better mark. "Lord Romengar, you have two older sisters, yes?"

Romengar gave a wary nod.

"Tell me, is it fair, that you took precedence over them, simply because you were male? That you were allowed to inherit not only your father's earldom, but also his entire entailed estate, while your sisters shared inheritance of a relatively meagre amount?" Although, given the rumours Duncan had heard, even Jothren's worth was meagre these days. "And you never had to prove anything to anyone first? That you were smarter than your sisters, or more capable of running the family holding, or more able to grasp nuanced political matters?"

Romengar said nothing, but quietly scowled.

"Of course you didn't," Duncan said. "And neither did I." He smirked. "Although, I at least had the slight advantage of being an only child."

That got him a few quiet laughs.

"But that's how the system works," Duncan said. "It all depends on people being born. That's all our mothers and fathers had to do, that's all we had to do, that's all our own heirs and successors will have to do, from now until the end of time. Be born. And be born first. Nothing more."

"Unlike our colleagues in the House of Commons"—Duncan pointed across the street—"none of us have ever had to fight for our seats. We've never had to prove to any political party why we deserve to be selected as a candidate. We've never had to persuade a riding full of regular, normal, tax-paying people that we deserve to be elected—"

"Better to be chosen by Eru than by the people," the Earl of Trebus—a man with all the charisma of a wet paper bag and the intellectual profundity of a tossed salad—stood up to shout.

"Lord Trebus, if you're an example of who Eru chooses, then Bema save us all," a bolshy Jonrick Amerwen stood up to shout back.

Lord Hereoch gasped; Erella Darkfald bit down on a snort.

The Custodian blew a fuse. "Lord Amerwen, one more word from you, and I will have you removed from this Hall," he bellowed, not even bothering (or forgetting) to bang his rod.

"I apologize, and withdraw my remark," Jonrick said in a tone so disdainful not even Trebus would be daft enough to believe him.

"It's _marvellous_ , isn't it?" said Elfhelm, grinning. "Like being in Second School again, but with better clothes and more money."

"At least nobody's beating up the nerdy kids behind the bike sheds at lunch," Solwen said.

Erland snorted. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"None of us have ever had to spend every waking hour in the run-up to an election calling people to beg for money," Duncan continued, "or posting leaflets, or knocking on doors. We've never suffered the humiliation of de-selection, or of losing a seat by a hundred votes, or of watching your party being utterly crushed in a generational landslide defeat. Collectively, we have the same legislative power as our colleagues in the Commons, but none of us have ever faced even one of the obstacles they've overcome to get where they are. We've had our power handed to us on a silver platter, wrapped up with a pretty bow. Where the _hell_ is the fairness in that?"

Camelor rose. "We cannot change the nature of the Hall, My Lord. As my daughter's so fond of saying, it is what it is."

"It is what it is," Duncan repeated, slowly pacing again. "I quite agree. Smart girl you've got there. But that attitude only applies to the base nature of the Hall. We can't change _how_ we come into our seats. I mean, not unless we overhaul the whole system." He stopped to look around. "I don't suppose we have any takers for that?"

Silence.

Erella turned to shoot him a glare, silently warning him she would skin him alive if he so much as breathed the word 'republic'. He smiled, telling her to ease off the gas. He didn't want a republic. But shining the light on the need for reform wouldn't do anyone any harm.

"But we _can_ change some other things. For example, let's look at the issue of numbers. At full strength, the Hall of Lords has a mere 128 members. But we almost never sit at full strength, for a variety of reasons. Even today, we have only 118 attendees. Why is it, our gathering of 118 hereditary peers has the same collective decision-making power as the 448 democratically elected members of the House of Commons? Why does it take four of them to equal one of us?" He wanted to talk about the regional imbalance as well—the fact there were twenty-six earls from Kingstead, but only three from the March—but he knew that complaint would fall on deaf ears.

Jonrick quietly groaned as Hereoch drew himself to his feet. "It's because of population changes, My Lord," Hereoch said in a helpful tone. "Back when Parliament was established, the numbers were roughly the same. But as the nation's population grew, so did the number of MPs. Plus, our numbers have fallen, because some earldoms have become extinct." He smiled. "The earldom of Aldburg, for example, which merged with the Crown when the earl became King."

"But why have we not created new earls to replace those who have left?" Duncan asked, even though he knew the answer already.

Hereoch's smile instantly dropped; this was a much more contentious topic. "Because the government is reluctant to create new hereditary titles, with all the attendant privileges to the recipient and their descendants in perpetuity such an act entails. It believes the Hall should be brought up to full strength using titles granted only for life instead."

"And has the government ever attempted to implement this 'titles for life' idea?"

Hereoch nodded. "Three attempts in the last fifteen years."

"All of which the Hall has shot down in flames." Duncan looked around the room. "We're not good at sharing, are we? We don't like opening the club to new people." He wrinkled his nose. "Especially not common people. I mean, we can't let just _anyone_ in. We have standards to maintain, right?"

The Countess of Briotha snorted. And rightly so—as the holder of the kingdom's youngest earldom, she'd put up with plenty of 'old school' snobbery crap.

"And then there's the business of age." Duncan turned to the Earl of Roxbrunde again. "When our colleague, the Earl of Roxbrunde, suffered the tragic loss of his father last year, he was allowed to take his seat in the Hall one month after his father's death, despite being barely twenty years old at the time. To stand for election in the Commons, you have to be at least twenty-five. Where, exactly, is the fairness in that? Why is Lord Roxbrunde allowed to do something his non-Landed counterparts are not, that is, hold a seat in the legislature?" He held up a hand. "And no, that is absolutely _not_ a criticism of His Lordship. So far, he's proven to be an extremely capable young man." More capable than some peers three times his age. "I think he's doing a _fantastic_ job, and we're lucky to have him."

Roxbrunde rose, gave a quick acknowledging nod. "Thank you, My Lord. The feeling is mutual."

"I think the Earl of Roxbrunde just became the founding member of your father's fan club," Elfhelm whispered.

Erland snickered as Solwen sighed.

A fan club, Bema. That was the last thing any of them needed…

"But if ages and head counts doesn't excite you, let's talk about all the special protections we have. The Privilege of Peerage," Duncan proclaimed. "The Hall's dirty little secret."

Kereth stood again; she was earning her allowance today. "It's not a secret, My Lord," she said. "We're not hiding it from people."

"But we're not exactly shouting it from the rooftops either, are we?" Duncan shot back. "And who could blame us? Why would we ever want to let people know it's a thing? I mean, it gives us special protections against arrest, and grants us certain immunities against accusations of libel or slander. If a peer is charged with a crime, the monarch has to give their formal approval for them to be tried in a regular Court of Law instead of in the Hall itself. And let's not forget, if a peer is convicted of an indictable offense, a category that includes murder, rape, armed robbery, drug trafficking and treason, they don't have to surrender their seat! They go to jail, yes, but once their sentence is done, they can come back to the Hall and take their seat as if nothing ever happened. Whereas, members of the House who are convicted of such an offense are permanently banned from ever standing as an MP again. And all because the Privilege of Peerage supersedes the Parliamentary Code of Conduct."

Just thinking about his next point made Duncan's blood boil; more than anything else about the Hall, this was the one thing he wanted to change. "Oh, and before you go thinking this is a purely theoretical problem, it actually isn't. Three sitting members of this Hall, two of whom are present today, have been convicted of indictable offenses. I won't name them, you all know who they are. Two of the convictions were for financial crimes"—his gaze went to Camelor, who ignored him—"but one was for sexual assault on a minor. The victim was twelve years old. One member of the Hall of Lords _sexually molested a child_ , and they haven't been banned from taking their seat." He slammed his fist on his desk. "How the _fuck_ is that fair?" he cried.

You could have heard a drop of rain fall in the silence that followed. Even the Custodian—normally so strict about language and conduct—appeared to have nothing to say.

The meeting room fell silent as well.

"Connet?" said Eomer calmly.

Connet looked round. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Put that matter on the list," Eomer said, gesturing at the notepad again. "I'd like to follow up with the PM about that on Tuesday."

He was supposed to be neutral, to stay out of political matters unless invited to get involved, but he was damned if he was going to allow a child molester to sit in the Hall.

Duncan moved on. "And then, there's the issue of money. Let's talk about how much members of the Hall earn."

Lord Strone shot to his feet. "We don't earn anything," he said, offended. "This is an unsalaried position. Our work here is unpaid."

"You're quite correct," Duncan said. "We don't receive a salary for sitting in the Hall. But I think it would be a serious stretch to describe what we do as unpaid. It's another dirty little secret we don't like to talk about. We don't get paid, but we _are_ allowed to claim an allowance, supposedly to cover expenses. Except, the allowance is three hundred pounds per day, and the only thing we have to do to claim it is sign in at the door." He turned to gesture to an empty seat far up on his right. "A situation one of our colleagues has been more than happy to exploit. He turns up every day, signs in, then buggers off home! He hasn't attended a session or cast a vote for almost two years! And the tragic thing is, he doesn't even pretend to feel bad about what he's doing. He knows there's no check on attendance, so nobody's ever going to follow up on it. We pay him almost fifty thousand pounds a year to do nothing! How is that fair on our colleagues in the House?"

"Members of the House earn a minimum salary of eighty-one thousand pounds," said Strone. "That sounds like a fair amount to me."

"Yes, but they have to work for it!" Duncan pointed out. "As in turn up, and do an actual job! Can you imagine how much hell people would raise, if a sitting MP decided to just sit at home every day?"

Romengar rose—predictable—one of the few people in the Hall who really needed the money. "If you're so concerned about the allowance, My Lord, just don't claim it," he said.

Bema, was it really that hard for people to understand? "I don't," Duncan said. "I never have, and I never will. I think it would be a travesty for me to do any such thing. But what our absent colleague is doing is an even greater travesty again."

"Is that true?" Elfhelm whispered. "That he doesn't take the allowance I mean? Or another white lie?"

"No, it's true," Solwen said, somewhat shocked he would even doubt her dad's word. "My grandmother never took it either."

"My dad takes his, but he gives it all to charity. He doesn't keep a penny of it."

She bloody well hoped not, given how rich the Elgolls were. "That's another nice solution, I guess."

"We can't all be as principled as you, My Lord," Jothren Romengar said, sarcasm dripping from every word, all but stating Duncan was anything but.

The Custodian wouldn't meet Duncan's eye. Funny, how the 'personal attacks' rule only seemed to work one way. Once this ridiculous nonsense was done, Duncan was going to propose the Hall allow the Custodian to 'retire', find someone less blinkered to take his place. "I'm just trying to do my best," Duncan said. "This job is supposed to be a privilege, something we do as a civic duty, for the benefit of the people of Rohan. Not a way for us to line our pockets. I mean, do we really need a subsidised bar?" he said, pointing in the bar's direction. "Are we all so poor, we can't afford to buy a pint of beer unless the taxpayer pays a chunk of the bill?"

But he'd spoken enough. Time to bring his speech to a close, before he provoked a bare-knuckled fight. "In conclusion"—a light sigh of relief ran through the Hall—"I would advise every member of this Hall to think extremely carefully before they decide to support this petition on a fairness angle." He scanned around, checking faces one by one, trying to figure out who was with him, and who was against. "Fairness means different things to different people. It's all very well to talk about how unfairly Princess Thengwen was treated, but ask yourself, will what happened to her seem unfair to ordinary men and women? Men and women who are too busy worrying about how to pay their mortgage, or the rising cost of food and fuel, or whether their child is being bullied at school, or a million and one other normal, everyday things that most people in this room will never have to worry about?" Except, maybe, the bullying thing—he knew Tommen's lad had struggled with that in his teens. "Will the people of Rohan _really_ care?"

Now, for his final punch. "If you pass this petition, and hand it to the House of Commons, are you ready for what happens next? Their process isn't as quick as ours." Or, as easy to abuse, Duncan wanted to add. "They'll have a reading in the House, then it'll go committee, then to another reading. Only after all that, will the petition go to a vote. The issue will be debated at length, taking up time the House doesn't have and can't really afford to waste. All in full view of the public gaze. And if there's one thing I've learned in the last ten years, it's that you can never predict how the public will react to a political issue. If you push this into the public arena, bleating about fairness, demanding the House spend its time and energy on this petition instead of something really useful, who's to say the people of Rohan won't start having ideas about fairness themselves? Who's to say, they won't turn the spotlight back on us, demanding to know exactly what we do, and why we're even allowed to do it?"

Sighing, Jothren Romengar rose, hopefully for the last time. "I doubt very much the people of Rohan will do any such thing, My Lord."

"Oh, and why's that?"

Jothren shrugged. "Numerous polls have shown they're satisfied with the work the Hall does. They don't think the system needs to be changed."

Solwen clamped her hand to her mouth, smothering her yelp of surprise.

Never mind reporting a murder. Someone in the Hall had just doused themselves in petrol and quietly set themselves on fire.

Duncan wasn't sure he'd heard Jothren correctly. "I'm sorry, My Lord, did you just say, the people of Rohan don't think the system needs to be changed?"

Erella rubbed the bridge of her nose. Even Camelor looked as if he wanted to hang himself; he understood how much damage his fellow earl had just done.

Romengar nodded, still oblivious to his mistake. "I did, yes."

"Honoured colleagues, there you have it, straight from the horse's mouth," Duncan announced to the Hall. "The people of Rohan _don't think the system needs to be changed_ ," he hollered. He turned back to Romengar, smiling politely. "And tell me, My Lord"—he paused for effect—"does that system include the King?"

Romengar visibly paled. "That's not what I meant."

But Duncan wasn't giving his colleague so much as a centimetre. "The system doesn't need to be changed," he loudly and confidently repeated, making one final scan of the Hall. "So, ask yourselves, if that's the case, why are we even looking at this petition at all?"

With a closing nod, Duncan sat down.

No murmur of approval now. And certainly no stamping of feet.

Just silence. And not the silence of anger or shock. The silence of embarrassment.

And yes, maybe, at the edges, the silence of fear as well.

"Well, then," Eomer declared, not quite knowing what else to say. "What did everyone make of all that?"

Fenbrand let out a sigh. "Not the Earl of Romengar's finest political moment, sir."

Not his finest political moment—there was Fenbrand's talent for words again. "Fenbrand, he just committed political suicide, all but handed the vote to the rebutters on a nice plate." It was just as well the Midsummer break was coming up soon. Maybe by the end of August, Jothren Romengar would be able to show his face around town.

A knock at the door, then Vonnal stuck his head in. "Apologies for interrupting, sir, Colwenna asked us to tell you, the doctor is here."

The doctor, Bema, of course. He was here to check Eomer's shoulder, and hopefully, if all went well, to tell him he could get rid of the sling. Which reminded him—he should ask Colwenna if everything was in hand for tonight, if she'd arranged for someone to pick Solwen up. The answer was almost certainly 'yes', but it never did any harm to be sure.

Eomer rose, prompting the others to rise as well. "Carry on," he said, waving them back into their chairs.

He wouldn't be here to watch the vote, but he didn't mind. After what he'd just seen, he didn't think he was in any danger of losing his job…

The Custodian slammed his rod down. Another echoing, nerve-shredding clang; how Duncan wished he would give the thing up and use the quieter gavel instead.

"This rebuttal to the petition is now complete," the Custodian proclaimed.

No sooner had he finished speaking than Keveleok shot to her feet. "I propose delaying the vote until Monday morning, My Lord. To give everyone time to absorb and understand the information they've heard today." Which was Keveleok-speak for 'I need some time to figure out how to fix the fuck-up Jothren just made'.

Erella was having none of it. "My honoured colleague can hardly ask for a delay now, when she was the one who insisted we present the rebuttal by the end of this week."

Sighing, the Custodian nodded. "I'm inclined to agree with Lady Darkfald." That wasn't what his disgruntled expression said, but he knew there was no easy way to give Keveleok what she wanted. She couldn't ask for haste one week and leisure another. He brought his rod down again. "The Hall is adjourned. The vote will take place at four o'clock today."

Solwen looked from left to right. "Right, then. Who wants a drink?"


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Algrin and Fastmer touch base about the spy, a get-together after Duncan's speech, Solwen takes a call from Brendal, the Hall goes in for the vote, Morwen decides to open some new correspondence.

To Algrin's relief, the office door was slightly ajar. Fastmer wasn't out on duty, then, good.

He knocked on the door, paused a second and pushed it in. He would usually wait to be summoned, but he didn't have time for manners today.

Fastmer looked up as Algrin entered, showing the briefest of smiles. "Algrin, hello," he said. He snapped a document binder shut and swivelled to slot it into a space on the shelf behind him. "Something I can help you with?"

"There is, yes." Algrin pushed the door shut. "I've finished my first round of interviews," he said. "I've had at least one fifteen minute meeting with everyone in the first group."

"Everyone?"

"Not Fenbrand," Algrin explained. "He's the only one I haven't spoken to yet. I wanted to see what other people had to say about him first."

"And what did they tell you?"

"Quite a bit, as it happens." In Algrin's opinion, too much for Fenbrand's 'habits' to be a harmless, trivial thing. He laid some notes on Fastmer's desk. "Twelve other people told me more or less the same thing as Godhild, that Fenbrand has asked them to pass them information about the King." He tapped an entry near the top of the list. "Including Vonnal, you'll be interested to know. He didn't pass him anything," Algrin quickly added, knowing how sensitive Fastmer would be about his own staff, "but he told me he'd seen Fenbrand talking to a few people. And, he caught him once, trying to eavesdrop at the King's door."

"That's quite incriminating, wouldn't you say?"

"Depends. How much do you trust Vonnal?" Algrin said.

"With my life," was Fastmer's instant and indignant response. "There's not a dishonourable bone in the man's body. I'd take him over Fenbrand any day of the week."

That told Algrin all he needed to know. "We need to look at Fenbrand, then. It's starting to look more and more as if he's our spy."

"We should take this to the King now," Fastmer said, starting to rise.

Algrin waved him back into his seat. "Not yet. We need to talk to Fenbrand first." He understood why Fastmer was so eager to move—he wanted to catch the spy, and he wanted the spy to be Fenbrand so it wouldn't be one of his people instead—but they had to do this properly, which meant fairly, and by the book. "We're not a star chamber. We should give him a chance to explain himself before we take what we've uncovered to anyone else."

Fastmer sighed. "I guess so, yes." But his disgruntled expression didn't agree. "Do you want to talk to him today?"

"Not today, no. He's in a meeting with his team, and I know he's heading to some fancy dinner thing in town straight after. Let's do it first thing tomorrow instead."

"My shift starts at ten, but I can come in early."

"You sure?"

Fastmer nodded. "Absolutely. I don't want to let this thing run any longer than it has to."

Neither did Algrin. Every day they didn't expose the spy was another day the spy could do more damage. "Fenbrand's usually in at eight. I'll leave a message for him tonight, ask him to come to my office at nine tomorrow. Can you meet me there?"

"Of course."

Job done, Algrin turned away. He paused as he reached the door. "Oh, and you'll be pleased to know, I put in the request for the warrant. To access Godhild's records, I mean. I should have it by Tuesday next week."

"Good."

"Is she still on duty?" Algrin asked. He hadn't seen her so far today, but Fastmer might have put her on a late shift.

Sighing, Fastmer nodded. "I can't put her on leave without an official reason, and I'd rather not do that right now. I want her to think she's in the clear. But I've changed her shifts, so she won't be anywhere near the King, don't worry." He not-smiled again. "And I've got someone keeping tabs on her."

So, if she messed up, someone would see.

Algrin nodded, satisfied. "Then, I'll let you get back to your day."

They gathered at the rear of the lobby, waiting for the man (or team) of the hour to appear.

Another man—one none of them wanted to see—was one of the first out of the Hall again. But instead of pausing to trade snarky barbs, this time, the Earl of Camelor blanked them and strode away. After what Romengar had just done, he was probably going to find a paper bag to scream into.

"Thank fuck for that," Solwen muttered.

"Sorry?" said Erland.

She gestured after Camelor, now heading out the main door. "He stopped to talk to me when I came to see the petition last week. Just glad he didn't want to talk to me today as well."

"I doubt he's in the mood," said Elfhelm. "He's probably heading home to find a hapless servant to beat."

Camelor seemed like the kind of man who would have 'servants' instead of 'employees', yes…

"I thought it was just us Hamelmarks that didn't like him," said Erland.

Elfhelm grinned. "You Hamelmarks just don't like him the most," he explained. "But he's pretty high on the shitlist for us Elgolls as well."

"Good to know."

The vigorous eye-fucking started again. By eye-fucking standards, they must be on at _least_ second base…

Rolling her own eyes, Solwen turned away, going back to watching the door. She smiled as her dad emerged from the Hall, a bundle of files stuffed under his arm, Jonrick Amerwen on one side, and the Earl of Roxbrunde on the other. She waved to catch his attention. He waved back and guided his group their way.

She strode forward to meet him halfway, pulling him into a rib-cracking hug. "That was amazing," she said when she pulled away. "The best speech you've ever given."

"Pretty good, right?" He grinned as Erland arrived. "Hey, kiddo," he said, pulling Erland into a quick back-slapping hug. Frowning, he pulled away to hold his son at arm's length. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

Erland shrugged. "I decided this was a more important use of my time."

"What did you think of my speech?"

"Was good." Erland turned to Jonrick. "And nice work keeping the Custodian in line."

Jonrick huffed. "Bastard was way out of line. He's lucky I was so bloody polite."

Solwen caught her dad's eye, then slid her gaze to the Earl of Roxbrunde, still standing quietly at her dad's side.

Her dad took the hint. Turning to the young earl, he gestured to the new arrivals and said, "Lord Roxbrunde, this is my son, Erland, and my daughter, Solwen."

Erland–the eldest—held out his hand first. "How do you do?" he said in his nicest 'meeting new people' voice.

"I'm very well, thank you, My Lord." Roxbrunde showed a shy smile. "It's lovely to meet you."

Roxbrunde turned to Solwen; she extended a hand for shaking as well. "A pleasure to meet you, My Lord," she said with a courteous nod.

But instead of shaking her hand, Roxbrunde raised it briefly to his lips, opting for the old-fashioned way to greet an unmarried, Landed woman. "The pleasure is mine."

Eru and all the Valar help her. She'd never had her hand kissed before. What the hell did she do or say now?

Jonrick guffawed. "Careful, lad, this one knows how to punch. You don't want to put your face too close to that fist."

" _And_ she's taken," a grinning Erland added.

Roxbrunde turned a delicate shade of pink, and gave her a courteous bow. "Still lovely to meet you, My Lady," he said.

Her dad's gaze focused on something over her shoulder. Elfhelm, of course—an introduction was due there as well. As brash as he was, even Elfhelm wouldn't breach the etiquette rules by barging into a conversation uninvited—his father (or more likely his mother) had raised him too well.

Solwen beckoned Elfhelm forward. "Dad, this is Elfhelm, the Earl of Elgoll's son."

Elfhelm stepped in, smiling politely, extending a hand in her father's direction. "Lovely to finally meet you, My Lord. I've heard a great deal about you."

Her dad grinned as he shook the hand. "All thoroughly wicked, I hope."

"Of course."

"So, what did you make of today's proceedings?" her dad said.

"I think calling them proceedings is an extremely generous description," said Elfhelm. "But I thought you gave an excellent speech. As did Lady Darkfald."

Solwen looked round, scanning for a familiar face. "I haven't seen her. Did she come out yet?"

"She's still in the Hall," Jonrick said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "A couple of people cornered her on the way out."

"I haven't seen Lady Keveleok or Uncle Jothren yet, either," Elfhelm added, craning his neck to scan the room. "No sign of them at all."

Jonrick shook his head. "The Custodian let them use the rear door. They'll be in their offices by now. You won't see them again until they have to come back for the vote." He snorted. "Assuming they even come back. There won't even be a vote if they don't, they might decide that's the easier option, just chicken out completely."

"They'll be back," her dad vowed. "They'll face disciplinary action if they don't show up to vote on their own petition. They won't take the risk."

"Did you enjoy the debate?" Roxbrunde said to Solwen.

"I did, very much, yes." She gave him a supportive smile. "And I thought you did an amazing job with what you added." Especially his comment to Keveleok—his delivery had been RAFTA-worthy.

"My mum might not feel the same way. She's probably going to rip me a new one when I get home."

"You just have to remind your mum, you're the Earl of Roxbrunde now," her dad said in a firm tone. "You're allowed to have whatever political opinions you want to have. You don't need her approval, _or_ her permission."

Roxbrunde sighed. "I know. It's just difficult."

"She's one of your parents," Solwen said drily. "Of course it is."

Her dad cuffed her on the back of the head. "Less of your cheek, young lady."

Sighing, Erland checked his watch. "As much as I'd love to stay here and watch you lot trade painfully witty insults all day, I need to head back to work."

"You said you'd booked your calendar out for two hours," said Solwen, accusing. "And it's not as if you have far to go." She nodded to the bar behind them. "You can do one drink at least."

"One drink," Erland said, holding up an index finger. "And something non-alcoholic. I can't go back to the office half-cut."

"Where is it you work?" said Elfhelm.

"A private investment firm. Boutique place called Eodor Wealth Management." Erland gestured over his shoulder. "It's just a block away, in the Kantrell Tower."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Erland shrugged. "More or less, yes."

"Right, then," Solwen said, trying to restore some order on the proceedings. "Let's grab a seat in the bar, have a drink while we wait for their Illustrious Lordships to be called in for the vote." Smiling at Roxbrunde again, she said, "Would you like to join us?" He was old enough, and she was sure her dad wouldn't mind.

"I'd be honoured," said Roxbrunde, giving an eager, almost excitable nod.

Bema. He was like a puppy who still needed to grow into his paws…

"Lead the way," her dad said, waving her on.

"Duncan!" a woman's voice barked out across the lobby.

They turned as a group to see Erella Darkfald striding towards them, heels clicking on the pale granite floor. She hewed through the crowd like a wolf running through a field full of sheep. And from the way she was scowling, she wasn't coming to tell them what flavour of cake she liked. That was the scowl of a _seriously_ angry woman…

"Aww, fuck," Jonrick muttered.

Her dad showed the Countess a welcoming smile. "Erella, hello. We're just heading to the bar to have a drink before we go back to vote. Would you like to join us?" he said. "You look as if you could use a nice glass of gin."

Solwen had to admit, sometimes, her dad _really_ had balls…

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Erella demanded.

Her dad frowned. "What the fuck was what?"

" _That_ ," Erella repeated, flapping a furious hand at the Hall. "Whatever it was you just did for the last thirty-odd minutes."

"That was my speech," her dad said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"That wasn't a speech. That was a goddamn call to arms!"

"You told me to get creative." Her dad shrugged. "I got creative."

"Not that creative," Erella hissed. "I wanted you to come up with an interesting take on the petition, not call for the Hall of Lords to be abolished!"

"I don't believe I did."

"You might as well have, for all the things you just said. I've already had five members of the Hall approach me, worrying about what your speech might provoke."

Frowning, Jonrick moved to stand at her dad's side. "Like what?"

"Changes," Erella explained. "To various things."

"I think the word you're looking for is reforms," her dad pointed out.

Groaning, Erella covered her face with her hands. The colourful gemstones in her wedding band glinted in the afternoon sun. "Duncan, can you just not do this, please? I have enough crap on my plate already. I don't need you adding an overhaul of the Hall on top."

"Not even when the Hall needs to be overhauled?" said Elfhelm calmly, making heads swivel to him in surprise. He shrugged. "I mean, I would take a softly, softly approach myself, I'm not a big fan of major and sudden upheavals, but there's no way the Earl of Manarta should be in the Hall. That's one reform you _definitely_ need to make."

"What did the Earl of Manarta do?" said Roxbrunde, confused.

Everyone looked at everyone else, using their eyes to play rock-paper-scissors, wondering who was going to explain.

Jonrick took the hit. "The Earl of Manarta is the person who was convicted of sexual assault on a minor," he said in quiet voice.

"I had no idea," Roxbrunde murmured.

Her dad patted him on the shoulder. "It was fourteen years ago. Not the kind of thing your mum or dad would have told you about at the time."

"How long did he go to jail for?"

"The judge sentenced him to eight years," Elfhelm said. "They let him out after five."

"I'm willing to admit, that's one change we definitely need to make," said Erella, slightly calmer now. "And yes, we should probably look at the allowance system, put some checks and balances in place, make that lazy bastard Lindgarn actually turn up to earn his keep."

"I quite admire him, actually," Elfhelm said, making shocked gazes turn on him again. He held up a hand. "Not in an approving way. But you have to admit, what he's doing, signing in then buggering off, that really takes guts."

"At least he's being honest about how lazy he is," Erland said.

Elfhelm grinned. "Exactly."

"Not sure anyone who's currently lying their way out of being at work should go accusing someone else of being lazy," Solwen said.

"Neither should the woman who doesn't even have a job to lie their way out of," Erland shot back.

"Okay, kiddies, no arguing, please," her dad said, holding up a peacekeeping hand. "We only do that _in_ the Hall."

"Will you join us for a drink?" Solwen said to Erella.

The Countess sighed. "As much as I'd love to, not today, no. I need to talk to some people before we go in for the vote."

"You worried you won't have enough to throw the petition out?" Solwen asked.

"Oh, no," Erella scoffed. "After what Jothren just did, there's absolutely no fear of that." She winced, looking at Elfhelm. "Sorry. I meant no offense. I should remember he's your uncle."

"No offense taken," Elfhelm said. "He's only my uncle by marriage. Not like we have any genes in common."

That reminded Solwen of something. She drew out her phone, checking for messages, but there was nothing from Elisend so far today. She would still be at work, probably wouldn't find out about the shitstorm her dad had just caused until later tonight. Should she send her a pre-emptive, peacekeeping text? They'd never allowed their fathers' differing political views to get in the way of their friendship before, but today's events might stretch that agreement to the limit.

"Something wrong?" her dad said.

"Nothing. Just thinking about Elisend," she said. "If I should text her, or wait until she contacts me."

Erella answered. "Might be better if you left it for now. I think the Romengars are about to have a very stressful few days."

A scroll down the screen showed she had one other text. From her newest, royal contact, no less. Heart racing, she pressed the button to open the message. It didn't say much, and the timestamp was almost an hour ago. _Still good for tonight? Checked with C, all good here. Car will pick you up at eight-twenty._

Trying not to smile (lest she rouse her dad's suspicions), she sent a quick message back, _All good here. Can't wait._ She paused, deciding, then added, _Hope you got rid of the sling_.

"Okay, that's not a text to Elisend," her dad said.

"Sorry?"

"The look on your face, while you were texting, you weren't just texting a friend."

Elfhelm's face lit up. "Ooh, yes, of course, you have another d—" he broke off, smile dropping as Solwen shot him a silencing, soul-blasting glare. Beside her, Erland lowered his head, biting down on a grin.

Eyes narrowing, her dad looked from her to Elfhelm to Erland. "Another what?" he demanded.

"Another dose of minding your own fucking business," Solwen said, making Roxbrunde blink, Jonrick grimace and Erella smile. She waved to the bar. "Now, are we going to stand here gossiping like old soldiers all day, or are we having that bloody drink?"

"I quite like the gossiping part, actually," said Elfhelm.

"Yes, that's because you can gossip like it's an internationally regulated sport," Solwen snapped.

Her dad started to tell her off, Erland raised a hand. "It's okay. We covered this upstairs already. He doesn't mind. He says he quite likes it."

"Huh."

Erella checked her watch. "I have to go." She wagged a finger at the three Lords in turn. "Don't forget to come back for the vote. Four o'clock sharp."

"Yes, ma'am," Roxbrunde said with a nod. "We'll be there, don't worry."

She turned to Elfhelm. "Will I see you on Saturday night?" she asked.

Saturday. The summer solstice. The Darkfalds and the Elgolls were probably going to the same fancy Solstice event.

Elfhelm nodded. "You certainly will."

As Erella strode away, Solwen noticed the Earl of Elgoll quietly watching their group. She nudged Elfhelm. "I think your dad might be trying to round you up."

"I should go see what he wants." Elfhelm gave everyone a smile and a nod. "Was lovely to meet you all. Best of luck with the vote." He turned to Erland, frowning, as if there was something else he wanted to say, hesitated, then sighed and strode off to meet up with his father.

Erland watched Elfhelm go, only tearing his eyes away when the two Elgoll men turned a corner at the end of the hall.

There would be more eye-fucking there at some point. And maybe, if the Gods smiled, some other body part-fucking as well…

Heels clicked behind Solwen again, but this time, not Erella's. This time, another woman. The woman from the balcony—Seorsa—the Earl of Camelor's wife. Or soon-to-be ex-wife, rather. She was even more exquisite up close, with dark green eyes, flawless skin, a hunter's bow mouth and bone structure that would make Varda weep. Solwen had always felt reasonably confident in her own looks, but compared to this vision of feminine beauty and style, she might as well just put a bag on her head.

Seorsa smiled politely as she approached. "Am I interrupting?" she said, scanning the group.

"Lady Camelor, not at all, no." Her dad dipped his head in a courteous nod. "How are you?"

"I'm very well, My Lord, thank you." She nodded at Roxbrunde and Jonrick. "Lord Roxbrunde, Lord Amerwen, very nice to see you." She looked to Erland and Solwen, smiling. "I don't believe we've met," she said.

Her dad stepped in. "Lady Camelor, this is my son, Erland, and my daughter, Solwen," he said, waving between them. "Erland, Solwen, this is Seorsa Camelor." He flashed a small grin. "The Earl of Camelor's wife."

"But almost his ex-wife," Seorsa added, smiling again, showing perfect, beautiful, even white teeth. "So, don't hold my terrible tastes in husbands against me, please."

Once the usual handshakes were done, Solwen said, "You came to hear the rebuttal."

Seorsa nodded. "I hadn't intended to, but I was in town to meet with my lawyers, and the timing was convenient, so I decided to check it out, see what everyone had to say." She turned another smile on her dad. "And I have to say, I enjoyed every minute of it."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Especially when you challenged Rogen over the Honours. That was… satisfying, I think would be the best way to put it."

"I don't think your husband much liked it," Jonrick said.

She smirked. "He'll like what's waiting for him in the mail when he gets home even less." Frowning, she shook her head. "But that's a personal matter. My apologies. I shouldn't have said that."

"How long until you're divorced?" Solwen asked.

Her dad made a face. "Solly…"

"No, it's fine, I'm not offended," Seorsa said, waving him off. "And I'm not sure. Two more months, I think. Maybe three, if Rogen drags the settlement out."

Which he almost certainly would; Camelor struck Solwen as the type of man who was tight with money. "Well. Best of luck with that."

"Thank you." Seorsa hesitated. "And, um, if it wouldn't be impolite, I'd like to thank you for something else as well."

"What's that?"

Her voice turned hard. "For what you did to Thelden."

The tips of Solwen's ears burned. She knew Seorsa meant well, but she really wished people would let it all go. A whole decade had passed. She wasn't remotely the same person she'd been back then, and it wasn't what she wanted to be remembered for. "I, um, you're very welcome."

"I've embarrassed you. My apologies. I know what he said, so I should have realized it would be something you didn't want to discuss."

Solwen could almost hear how curious Lord Roxbrunde was, how desperately he wanted to ask the obvious question. "It's fine," she said to Seorsa. "You weren't to know."

Seorsa sighed. "Well, I'm still grateful. Bema knows he really deserved it." She smiled at the whole group. "But I'll leave this here. I would say, best of luck with the vote, but after what I just saw, I don't think you're going to need it." With another nod, she strode away.

The Earl of Roxbrunde watched her go, mouth hanging slightly open.

Jonrick tutted at him. "Careful, lad. You keep staring like that, you'll get drool on your shirt."

Roxbrunde blushed and cast his eyes to the floor. "She's… she's quite attractive, isn't she?"

Quite attractive, Bema. That was like saying the insides of Mount Doom were quite hot…

Her dad patted Roxbrunde on the shoulder. "She certainly is. But you'd have some _serious_ competition for the lady's attentions." He leaned in to whisper, "She's been diddling the King."

Solwen whipped round so hard something in her neck cracked. "Sorry?" she said, her good mood vanishing into the wind.

"Oh, so there's some gossip you don't know, then?"

"Did you just say, she's been seeing the _King_?" she repeated.

Her dad nodded. "Not for long, I think. Just since she separated from her husband." He looked to Jonrick. "Right?"

"That's what I'd heard," said Jonrick.

"Is she still seeing him?" Roxbrunde asked, all ears now.

Her dad shrugged. "I've no idea. You'd have to ask them."

Solwen swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Was Eomer _cheating_ on her? Not that they really had anything solid for him to cheat on yet. Was he double-dipping between her and the Earl of Camelor's wife? It seemed an awfully stupid thing to do, no matter how attractive the Countess was. Especially since she was legally still a married woman. No wonder the Earl of Camelor was so angry at him. And if the media ever found out? She could see the exclamation points in the tabloid headlines now…

She remembered, then, how Eomer had reacted on Tuesday, when she'd warned him the Earl of Camelor was the true force behind the petition. He'd already known, but refused to say how. Had his information come from Seorsa, perhaps? Was she less of a lover, more of a spy? But if she was separated from Camelor, living in another house, how on earth would she even have known what the earl was doing?

Bema. Between her secrets and the King's, who was spying on who, who was lying to who, this was all becoming a little too much. Should she even ask him about it tonight? How _did_ one raise the subject of respective ex-lovers with one's new paramour? It wasn't the kind of topic you found in any etiquette guide.

"I'm sure there's nothing to it," Erland said, glancing her way. "You know how easily gossip gets started. And how far it runs once it is."

He was trying to make her feel better, bless him.

Her phone started to ring. She pulled it out, wondering who was calling her now. To her surprise, the caller was Brendal. "I need to take this." She gestured to the bar. "Order me a white wine, I'll be there in a minute." Without waiting for anyone to confirm, she turned to head out to the terrace.

She answered on the fourth ring. Thank Bema. He _really_ wanted this problem resolved, the sooner, the better.

"Brendal, hi, how are you?" she said.

He wasn't in the mood to do the usual greetings and niceties thing. "I'd be a lot better if your dad wasn't trying to make life difficult for me."

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"When we met on Monday, you told me this cover story of yours would be a purely theoretical thing, and I wouldn't have to worry about meeting your family."

A pause, then a sigh. "What did he do?"

"He invited me to Solstice Dinner on Saturday night."

She muttered something vicious-sounding under her breath. "Did you answer him yet? Because if you haven't, you should just say no. I'll cover for you from there."

"Aye, except he fucking _phoned_ me last night, asked me right out of the blue."

Another put-upon sigh. "You accepted, didn't you?"

"Of course I accepted! What the fuck else was I supposed to do? The Earl of Hamelmark was inviting me to dinner."

"You could just have said no. Come up with some kind of excuse."

"Aye, except some of us are decent, honest, Gods-fearing people. Some of us don't know how to tell a good lie on the spot as well as you devious bastards all do."

"Okay, okay, calm down," she said. "It's only a family dinner. Not like you're having lunch with the King of Gondor."

"I'd rather have lunch with the King of Gondor," Brendal shot back. "At least the King of Gondor isn't your grandfather who thinks I'm _having sex_ with you." She had _no_ idea, how scary her grandfather was—she'd only ever seen his soft, cuddly side. Or, what passed for his soft, cuddly side.

"Brendal, if you really don't want to come, don't come," she said in a calm voice. "I'll speak to him on Saturday afternoon, tell him you're sick, or that something urgent came up."

"Wouldn't that be awfully rude?" Especially since her dad was an earl. There would be all kinds of Landed etiquette rules at work—the kind of rules that would make him glad he was just a regular, non-Landed guy.

"A little bit, yes. But it might be the easiest option."

It was tempting. But if his mum found out—not an impossible scenario, given she apparently talked to Haradoc on a semi-regular basis now—he would never hear the end of it. And he was already not hearing the end of enough things from his mum as it was.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll come to dinner. But I'm going to need some help."

"What kind of help?"

"You need to teach me how to lie to your dad."

She pealed out a laugh. "Oh, Brendal, I can't teach you how to lie to my dad in two days," she said. "I've been doing it for more than ten years, and I'm still terrible at it."

He should just kill himself now. Or fake his own death and go live with the trees in Fangorn Forest. At least the trees were simple and honest. And it was possible they might like bikes.

"But I _can_ teach you enough to get you through dinner," she added. "Cover the most basic advice."

"How long would that take?" They might need another rendezvous at the pub. Maybe tomorrow night—he didn't have plans, he could meet her then.

"Not as long as you'd think. Fifteen minutes, tops."

"That's all?"

"How would you get to our house?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"The bus takes me right to the Hill. I'd just walk the rest of the way. It's only five blocks, it wouldn't take long." That way, he could have a beer with dinner. Although, all things considered, maybe he should stay sober instead. Sober people didn't accidentally blab that they _weren't_ having sex with someone after all…

"So, here's what we'll do. Text me when you leave your place. I'll meet you off the bus when you get to the Hill, walk back to the house with you. We'll run through what you need to know on the way." She sighed. "How does that sound?"

"If you're sure that'll do."

"It will. And just remember, Erland will help you as well. He knows who I'm really dating. He'll run interference with my dad. And he's had more practice than I have, so he's much better at it. Stick with him, he'll keep you right."

That made him feel a little bit better. Not _completely_ better, but enough to believe he could make it through the dinner alive. "Just one other question, then."

"What's that?"

"What the everloving _fuck_ do I wear?"

Solwen pressed the button to hang up the call.

She was going to murder her dad. And she was going to find Erella Darkfald, ask her if she wanted to help. She'd never seen Erella raise so much as a finger in anger, but she had the feeling the Countess would happily put a fist in her dad's stomach right now. Or maybe even his balls.

She loved her dad as much as any daughter could, but why did he always have to play so many games? Why couldn't he just have asked her to ask Brendal to dinner for him? This was why she'd lived abroad for so long, so she could live her life without her father interfering. One of these days, they were going to have a truly epic fight—the kind of fight that would put what they'd had last Sunday night to shame. A falling out of absolutely _monstrous_ proportions.

But not today. Today, she would settle for tearing a few strips off him. Politely, of course—it wouldn't do for the nice, young Earl of Roxbrunde to see what a potty mouth she had.

Or, maybe she should leave it be. Her dad had just had one of the busiest, craziest weeks of his life. He'd been running on coffee and cigarettes since Sunday. Maybe he'd meant to tell her he'd invited Brendal to dinner, and it had just slipped his mind. Maybe he wasn't even the one behind it—maybe it had been Nediriel's idea.

And if she picked a fight with him, even a small one, it wouldn't do anything for her mood. And she didn't want to be in a bad mood, not when she had a date tonight.

Taking a breath, she pushed through the door. She just hoped the wine was chilled, because right now, she bloody well wasn't…

She claimed the same seat as before, but this time, apart from a guard on their phone at the far end of the row, she had the balcony more or less to herself. Erland had already gone back to work (taking his binder of documents with him), and there was no sign of Elfhelm returning.

Pity. She'd been hoping to see him again, see if he wanted Erland's number. After the amount of silent flirting the two men had done, she couldn't imagine he wasn't willing to try something more.

Down in the Hall, the Custodian brought the rod down. "I now call the Hall to vote, on the matter of the private petition published by Miss Thenwis Colafell of Edoras, presented to the Hall by The Right Honourable The Countess of Keveleok, seconded by The Right Honourable The Earl of Romengar."

It was interesting, how Thenwis had come to see the petition being given, but hadn't come to see either the rebuttal or the vote. Then again, the petition was the part she would like. The rebuttal—the parts where people said mean things about her—not so much. She might have watched the speeches from home, where she could swear at the television and throw things in peace.

The rod slammed down again. "Ushers, please close and lock the doors," the Custodian proclaimed. A hangover from more tumultuous days when armed men would storm the Hall to force a vote at the point of a sword.

A shuddering under her feet told her the doors were secure.

"The vote will now commence. Those of you who wish to support the petition, please press the green button on your personal panel," the Custodian instructed. "Those of you wish to oppose the petition, please press the red button. Those of you who wish to abstain, please take no action." As the clock struck four o'clock precisely, the rod came down again. "You now have one minute to enter your vote."

What a godsend the electronic system was. So much more efficient than either the old paper or verbal process. She raised her eyes to the screen above the Custodian's head, waiting for the results to appear. It was an open vote, so she would also see which way each earl had voted.

A rustle of movement in the Hall—everyone seemed to already know what they wanted to do. But the screen would only show the result once the full minute was done.

She watched as the clock counted down, her heart beating in perfect time. When the minute was up, a buzzer sounded, and then, a few seconds later, the numbers flashed on the screen.

Two abstentions. Thirty-four votes in favour, eighty-six votes against. Not quite a landslide, but not far off.

Down in the Hall, scattered applause ran through the room. Her dad quietly punched a fist in the air, then leaned forward to pat Erella Darkfald on the shoulder. As Solwen watched, other people approached to shake her dad's hand as well. She couldn't see the petition's three main proponents—they were all sitting right underneath her—but it seemed unlikely they would be having the same joyful reaction.

Her eyes went back to the board, checking who had pressed the green button. As well as Romengar and Keveleok, a few predictable names—Kereth, Trebus, Yonvell, Northpont. But the biggest surprise wasn't what name was on the green side of the board; it was what name _wasn't_.

Camelor.

Camelor had voted _against_ the petition.

He'd heard the rebuttal, realized the writing was on the wall, and decided to leave Leonilla Keveleok to swing in the wind.

That two-faced, lying, traitorous fuck.

Suddenly, her dad didn't seem like such a scheming arsehole after all.

Jonrick nudged his arm. "Look at the names," he said, jerking his chin up at the board. "Look where Camelor is."

Duncan scanned the left side, expecting to find Camelor in the green column. But he wasn't there. His eyes skipped across, waiting for the many names in the red column to scroll. And there he was, sandwiched between the Briotha and Cathanasca.

"The dirty fuck," he blurted. "He didn't even support his own side."

"He knew the ship was sinking, didn't want to be on it when it went down. He's leaving Keveleok and Romengar to take all the blame."

And Bema, it was going to be a shitload of blame. Or, ridicule, rather. Duncan almost felt sorry for them. But this was what happened when you lay down with dogs—you woke up infested with fleas.

He dropped his gaze to Camelor, who was on his feet, gathering himself together, preparing to leave as if nothing had happened, and it was simply the end of another monotonous day. Camelor caught his eye, held his gaze, smirked slightly and turned to calmly walk to the stairs.

"That is one cold-blooded prick," Jonrick said.

Duncan watched Camelor go. "I was thinking a stronger word than 'prick' myself."

Erland swore as his phone started to ring.

This better not be the internal audit team again, wanting to know if he'd run the mark-to-market valuations on the Q2 FX forward trades yet. Fuck all stupid auditors and their stupider fucking audit requests all the fucking way to paper-trail fuck.

To his surprise, 'Reception' was flashing on the display. He grabbed the handset to take the call. "Erland Hamelmark," he said.

"Mister Hamelmark, you have a visitor," one of the women at the front desk announced. He couldn't remember her name—something that started with 'F'.

"A visitor?" he repeated. That didn't make sense—he didn't have any client meetings today. Or did he, and he'd just fucked up?

As he was shaking his mouse to wake up his screen, name-starts-with-an-F solved the problem for him. "He doesn't have an appointment, but he says he's a client of yours, he was in the area, wanted to pop in for a quick chat."

"Right, um, tell him I'll be right there."

Pausing to pull on his suit jacket (one never met company clients just in one's tie and shirt), he took the internal stairs down to the fourteenth floor, buttoning his jacket as he went. At the bottom, he turned right to head to the front desk. He hoped whoever it was wouldn't need him for long.

A man was waiting, turned partially away, his hands jammed in his (extremely expensive) trouser pockets, scanning some of the corporate crap on the wall.

Erland saw him, and ground to a halt.

What the fuck was _he_ doing here?

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Morwen pressed the Mute button, silencing the feed from the Hall.

The vote was done; the petition was dead. Eomer's crown was finally safe, and Thenwis had been taught a lesson she would never forget. All was as it should be, the order of things had been fully restored.

If only the Earl of Hamelmark could have restored them in a slightly less provocative way. What in Eru's name had the man been thinking, raising the points he'd raised? And to object to Thenwis's petition on the grounds of how much it would cost? How _utterly_ indecorous of him. Well-bred people never, ever talked about money, except, perhaps with the man who managed one's cash. Then again, the Hamelmarks were from the March. The last time she'd looked, there hadn't been much good breeding going on there. That _mother_ of his? It made Morwen shudder and need a stiff drink just thinking about her.

She was grateful for what His Lordship had done, but she was tempted to give him a piece of his mind, remind him how an Earl of Rohan was supposed to behave.

She picked up the bell on her table to ring it.

A few seconds later, Ravindis appeared. She dipped towards the floor in a movement some ill-bred people would label a curtsy, but looked like no proper curtsy Morwen had ever seen. "Yes, Your Majesty?" she said.

"Bring me my writing pad and pen," Morwen ordered. "And have someone find out where the Earl of Hamelmark lives."


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solwen and Eomer have their next date.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER HAS SMUT IN IT.
> 
> It's not super-explicit, NC-17 level smut, but it's edging towards R level smut. If you're not comfortable, please scroll until it's all done :)

Solwen grabbed her phone, checking for updates one final time.

Nothing more from Brendal, and nothing more from the King. Which meant the car should still be here to pick her up in ten minutes.

Her most recent message was a text from Erland sent just before five, letting her know he was going for drinks with someone from work, he didn't know if and when he'd be home, so nobody should wait up for him.

And here, she'd expected to be the one who sent that advice…

Worryingly, no response from Elisend yet. Solwen had sent her three quick texts an hour ago. Nothing too provocative—just asking how she was, if she'd had a good day and if everything was okay at home. Ellie didn't live with her folks, but that didn't mean she wouldn't get dragged into the drama. And there would definitely be a drama with her parents tonight, after the way her father had put his foot in it.

But maybe the lack of replies didn't mean anything bad. Maybe Ellie was working late, or had also gone out with some people from work, and just hadn't had time to respond. If Solwen was allowed to do stuff without telling Ellie, Ellie was allowed to do stuff without telling her.

She threw her phone on the bed, and for what felt like the thirtieth time, checked her appearance in the mirror. She'd found another outfit to wear—a pretty, matching, skirt-and-top thing she'd bought for a party a few years ago, thrown into the back of her closet and promptly forgotten about. She was wearing the sandals from her first date, even though they rubbed her feet in all the wrong places. She was fairly sure Eomer wouldn't mind if she took them off. If all went well, they wouldn't be the only thing she took off tonight. She'd left her hair down, and she was wearing the same light layer of makeup as Sunday, but with a lipstick shade more suited to evening drinks than to Sunday brunch. Her watch and another dichroic necklace completed the look.

The clock read ten past eight. Time to run the gauntlet downstairs, say 'hi and bye' to people as fast as she could. And the gauntlet would be longer tonight—not just Nediriel and her dad, but the Amerwens and the Briothas as well. The other two couples had turned up at the house at six, taking her dad up on an invitation he'd issued after the vote to help him celebrate his speech. She'd been happy to socialize with them at first, but when her dad had cracked a bottle of mead, she'd left them to it, not being in the mood to sit and watch other people get hammered.

Bema only knew how many bottles of whatever they would all have gone through by now…

She grabbed her cardigan and her purse to head out. Downstairs was quiet—Erland was out, and Astalor was in his room, staying out of the adults' way—so she headed for the terrace, bracing for more questions than usual.

"Uh oh," Jonrick Amerwen said as she stepped through the door. "Hide the booze. One of the offspring's here."

Her dad looked round, his welcoming (and tipsy) smile faltering slightly as he took in her dress. "You heading out?"

She nodded. "I have a date."

"At this time?" he checked his watch, almost spilling some of the wine in his glass. "Bit late, isn't it?"

"He had something else until eight." She deliberately didn't say Brendal's name, as if that would somehow make it less of a lie. "He's picking me up in a few minutes."

"Doing anything nice?" Yennara Amerwen asked.

"Just going to his place to hang out." She shrugged. "We're not really going out people. We like to keep things pretty low-key."

"Your dad told us he's a bike mechanic," Heostan Briotha said. "And that he works for the King."

'That's right."

"Have you ever been in the Palace?" Godeline Briotha asked. "Does he know the King well?"

Solwen remembered her granny's advice, about how one of the best ways to lie was to stick to something close to the truth. "I've been in it once, for half an hour, just after I first moved back to Edoras, when he was helping me out with my bike. And I have no idea," was her answer to the second question. "We don't talk about that, so you'd have to ask him."

"Don't worry," her dad said, grinning as he topped up Godeline's glass. "He's coming for dinner on Saturday. I'll get all of the gossip out of him then."

"Who's coming for dinner on Saturday?" Nediriel said, frowning, sitting up in surprise.

So much for the theory Nediriel might have been the one behind the whole thing. "Brendal is." Solwen turned a fake smile on her dad. "Dad invited him. But I guess he forgot to tell _you_ that as well."

Jonrick started to laugh.

Nediriel slammed her glass down; some of the wine sloshed over the side. "Duncan, how many times do I have to tell you, not to bloody do that?"

"Not to do what?" her dad said, feigning innocence, failing completely.

"Stop inviting people to dinner without telling _me_ first! And stop inviting your daughter's boyfriends to dinner without telling _her_ first!"

"It slipped my mind!"

A warning finger came out. "You keep pulling bullshit like this, the only thing that'll be slipping round here is your ass onto the end of my foot," Nediriel said, pointing at her shoe for good measure. "Behave."

"Careful, Dunc," said Jonno. "You piss off the wife, she'll make you sleep in the garden again."

Her dad waved both the complaint and the warning away. "It's only one more person. We have a big table. There's plenty of room."

"It's not about the room. It's about you being a secretive _asshole_ ," Nediriel said. "I wish you wouldn't. I wish you would just tell me stuff instead."

Yennara pealed a laugh. "Oh, Diri, you might as well just ask the sun to stop shining."

And wasn't that the Gods' honest truth?

Eight-eighteen. Time to wrap up and go. Solwen waved goodbye to the group, leaving them to fight about her dad's (many) shortcomings. "I'm heading out now. I would say don't drink too much, but I think I would be wasting my time." As long as they didn't drink so much Lady Darrock called the cops on them. She'd done that once; it hadn't been pretty.

"Enjoy yourself," her dad said. "Be safe."

"Always."

Yelisan was precisely on time, but her mood was slightly subdued, so their short ride up to the Palace passed in almost total silence. Not that Solwen minded—she was just as happy not to chat as she was.

Colwenna was waiting in the garage again. But this time, someone else was with her—a man dressed in the distinctive green jacket of the King's Guard. A man Solwen was sure she'd met before, she just couldn't remember where.

"Uh oh," she murmured. "Looks like the execution squad is here."

Yelisan grinned. "Don't worry. That's just Vonnal. He's one of the King's Guards."

Solwen remembered where she'd seen him before—he'd been with the King the day they'd met at the Snowbourn bridge—he was the guard who'd arranged for her to be let in back at the Palace. And hadn't Eomer mentioned a Vonnal last week? A Stonehawk, he'd said, from near the Dunnish border. It wasn't a common name; it seemed unlikely two of his guards would be Vonnal.

"Does that mean I'm in some kind of trouble?" Solwen asked. "If there's a guard here to meet me?"

"Not at all, no." Yelisan let out a troubled sigh. "There's, um, there's been a security problem this week. We've had to tighten all our procedures, go back to doing things the way we're supposed to." She smiled. "No bringing people in to meet with the King without at least one of his guards knowing about it."

Solwen froze. "What makes you think I'm here to meet with the King?" she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. Had she let something slip on one of her previous visits?

Yelisan's smile turned shy. "No offense, my Lady, but nobody goes to all the trouble of coming in through the garage just to meet with Colwenna."

Yelisan had spotted the holes in her cover. Not a surprise; they were pretty big holes. "You promise not to tell?"

"It would be a violation of my employment contract if I did." Another smile. "And I like you, so I wouldn't tell anyone even if it wasn't."

"Appreciate that, thank you." The car ground to a halt, Solwen pulled the handle to let herself out. "I'll see you later. You have a good night."

"You as well, My Lady." A sly grin now. "Say 'hello' to His Majesty for me."

Colwenna smiled as Solwen approached—a broad, welcoming, genuine smile that warmed Solwen down to her toes. "Lady Solwen, how nice to see you again," Colwenna said.

"Nice to see you again, too." Solwen's eyes went to Vonnal. She couldn't help it—between his uniform, his gun and his height, he was a rather intimidating figure. Quite an attractive one as well, especially in the uniform, but best not to think about that. "I hope I'm not in some kind of trouble," she said.

"No trouble at all." Colwenna sighed. "But we've had to tighten our security procedures, so Vonnal is here to escort you safely to the King's rooms."

Was that 'safely' for her, or for the King?

Vonnal gave a curt nod. "My Lady," he said.

"Shall we?" Colwenna said, waving her to the door.

In the elevator, Solwen struggled to think of something to say. If it had just been her and Colwenna, she would maybe have talked about the rebuttal, or even asked about the security changes, which she was absolutely sure were due to the email she'd given the King. But she wouldn't raise either of those subjects with Vonnal around—she didn't know him well enough to trust him yet.

But there was one thing she could freely discuss. Smiling, she turned to the guard. "Vonnal, am I correct in thinking you're a Stonehawk?" she said.

Vonnal nodded. "I am," he said in the broadest Upper March accent her Lower March ears had ever heard.

"And I'm going to take a wild guess you're from near the northwest border region."

Another nod. "Heleonfort, ma'am. Born and raised."

"I've actually been there."

"Really?"

His surprise surprised her. Then again, Heleonfort wasn't somewhere most people went. Not these days, at least. "Just once, about twelve years ago. Before all the skirmishes started. Beautiful place. Lovely in the summer."

"It certainly is." He hesitated. "And you'll be from Isendale, I think."

"You think correctly."

"And, um"—his eyes flicked to Colwenna, who'd been following the exchange with eagle-eyed interest—"may I ask, are you clan?" he said.

Solwen shook her head. "I'm not, no. But my grandfather is." She grinned, knowing what response she was about to provoke. "A Giantsbane."

"My condolences," Vonnal said drily.

"Lieutenant," said Colwenna, sharply. "We do _not_ insult His Majesty's guests."

"No, it's fine," Solwen said, raising a placating hand. "I'm not remotely offended. It's just, the Stonehawks and the Giantsbanes, well, let's just say, they haven't always seen eye to eye. They have a long history of stealing each other's stuff"—mostly horses, but sometimes women and weapons as well—"and of throwing mortal insults at each other whenever they have the chance." She eyed Vonnal, preparing a prod. "My grandfather always said a Stonehawk is only good for three things." Her gaze went to Colwenna. "Drinking, fighting and… well, something else."

"That's at least one more than a Giantsbane's good for," Vonnal muttered.

She wondered how Vonnal and Brendal got on…

The conversation dropped as the elevator reached the top floor. Colwenna led her out, with Vonnal trailing a respectful distance behind. Solwen went for the usual right turn, but Colwenna reached out to grab her sleeve. "Not that way tonight." She smiled. "You're going in through the main door instead." She led Solwen another way, bringing her out into an ostentatious, portrait-lined hall with an antique wooden floor that, knowing a fair amount about wood, she could tell would be hell to maintain. She scanned the portraits as they walked, realizing who they were of. The last one was of a man she'd actually met, if only for a few minutes—Theoden King, regal and solemn, wearing the uniform of the Greens and Royals. It was quite a striking likeness–the artist had done a fantastic job. "These are the past Kings of Rohan, yes?"

"That's right," Colwenna said. "This corridor is called the King's Hall."

"Is there a Queen's Hall as well?"

"It's on the next floor down."

But of course it was. You couldn't put women on the same level as men. "What will happen if we ever have a reigning Queen? Will they put her down there or up here?" Would she be classed by gender, or job?

"That's a very good question. I honestly have no idea."

"Not like we have to worry anytime soon."

"Indeed." Colwenna led her up to a set of heavy, carved, double-wide doors. Two guards were stationed outside, wearing the same uniform as Vonnal. One of the guards was a young woman Solwen was sure she'd also seen that day at the bridge. The other was the man who'd been in the garage the day she'd gone to pick up her bike and bumped into the King. Fastmer, if memory served.

This door must be the main entrance to the King's private apartments, then. Was it just because of the change in security rules, that they were bringing her in this way tonight? Or, was it a statement about their relationship as well? Eomer might not be ready to admit they were dating to the whole world, but he was ready to admit it to a handful of palace people?

As she stepped up to the doors, she gave both guards her friendliest, don't-shoot-me smile.

So, this was Lady Solwen, then. The infamous Earl of Hamelmark's daughter. The one who'd punched a Camelor hard enough to break his nose and knock out a tooth.

She didn't look like the punching type. She looked entirely, utterly, pleasantly harmless. But Fastmer knew from his Army years, it was always the harmless-looking ones who caused the most trouble.

She also wasn't as beautiful as the women His Majesty usually frequented. Attractive, yes; a ravishing, out and out beauty, no.

Maybe that was a positive sign. Maybe, this time, His Majesty was in it for something more than a quick, filthy fix. Bema knew it was about bloody time the man got his relationship shit together.

Her Ladyship smiled as she passed through the door; Fastmer gave her a quick nod in return.

Once the guest and Colwenna were safely inside, he ceded his place at the door to Vonnal. "I'm off shift now," he said. "Keep your eyes and ears open, I'll check in with both of you tomorrow." Some time after the meeting with Fenbrand, when he might have something to check in with them about…

Through the doors was an elegant, mostly empty room. The only furniture of note was a large, round centre table set on a beautiful Harad rug, on top of what Solwen was sure was a wire-brushed finish Sorrow Blood floor that must have cost as much as a house. At nine, twelve and three o'clock were three sets of double doors. The doors straight ahead and to her left were closed, the doors to her right were slightly ajar. At the far end of the left wall was a regular door, also closed. The walls were adorned with various pieces of art, mostly in the Late Classical style, showing tasteful, pastoral scenes with sunrises, horses and fields. Light streamed in from above, courtesy of a skylight sunk into the roof, bathing the vase of peonies on the table in an ethereal, pinkish, mid-evening glow.

"Is this where the King lives?" Solwen quietly asked.

"This is his private apartment, yes." Colwenna led her through the double doors on the right, which opened into a dining room, complete with an elegant, oval, Dalish-style table for eight made from the same golden brown wood as the centrepiece out in the hall. Or waiting room. Or vestibule. Or whatever that empty space was. The wall to the left of the dining table was open, leading into an equally formal sitting room filled with numerous couches, seats and tables. A few pieces of art on the walls, all tasteful, high quality works, mostly from the Realist School. Both rooms looked as if they'd barely been used, and were full of the kind of furniture she would expect to see in a palace—lots of polished wood, club feet, carved aprons, gilded frames, braiding and chintzy seat covers.

"Just through here," Colwenna said, leading her to a reinforced door at the far side of the sitting room that looked as if it could hold off an armed assault. But it probably could; Solwen realized it wasn't just a door—it was also a boundary line, marking the crossing point from semi-public to private space, from the rooms Eomer probably used to entertain friends (or at least allowed other people to see) to the rooms that were purely and only for him. The Golden Hall might be the heart of the Palace, but this was the Meduseld's inner sanctum—the one place in the whole building where the King could just be himself.

She stepped across the boundary and came to an astonished stop. Compared to the opulent rooms next door, full of wood, finials, cushions and tassels, this room was positively mundane. Plenty of furniture, all stylish and in excellent shape, but no different from the pieces you would find in an average, middle- or upper-class home. It had obviously been chosen for comfort first, with luxury a distant second.

Colwenna waved at the window table, set with the usual nibbles and drinks. "Make yourself comfortable, please. His Majesty will be with you as soon as he can." Her smile was apologetic. "He's just in his office, wrapping up a last minute call."

Solwen wondered where the King's office was, if it was on this floor, or in another part of the building. "Thank you," she said, hanging her purse over a seat.

Colwenna paused as she reached the door. "I haven't watched it yet myself, but I understand your father gave quite a rousing rebuttal today."

Solwen grinned. "I think 'rousing' is a polite way to put it, but yes, he did."

"I saw the final vote." Triumph gleamed in Colwenna's eyes. "Quite a conclusive result."

"Extremely."

"I'm glad. We all are. It'll put the petition to bed for good. No more Colafell nonsense now."

"I'd think so, yes."

Colwenna nodded, concluding, took a step and paused again. "Lady Solwen?"

"Yes?"

"It's probably impertinent of me to ask, but by any chance, was it you who gave the King that email?"

Bema. What the fuck to say now? If Colwenna was asking, she must at least be suspicious. Denying it might cause more problems than it solved. And she was growing tired of lying to people; she wanted to tell Colwenna the truth. "It was, yes."

"I thought that might be the case." But there was no judgement in Colwenna's tone—just confirmation of what she'd believed.

"I hope it hasn't caused you all too many problems."

"It has, quite a few I should say, but we'd all still rather know about the issue than not."

"That's why I brought it." She wondered if the email was why they'd tighten all the security rules. "Can I ask, have you figured out who it is yet?"

Colwenna's expression was carefully neutral now. "I can't comment on that. All I can say is, it's definitely being looked into."

"Of course."

Colwenna smiled. "The King may be willing to tell you more. But I'll leave that up to him." She nodded. "Enjoy your evening. I'll see you again on the way out."

While she waited for the King to appear, Solwen took a quick tour of the room. It was definitely a personal space, with family photos stacked on shelves, books gathered in various piles, magazines on the coffee table, a sweater hanging over a chair and a large, sleek television mounted on the far wall. She examined the photos, recognizing some family members—Eomer's sister, his late uncle and cousin, his parents, a glamorous older woman who might be an aunt. One photo showed Eomer with Eowyn and a beaming Colwenna. He was younger, and wearing full Army greens, complete with peaked cap and formal white gloves, so it was probably from his time at the Royal War College. His passing out ceremony, perhaps. Colwenna was younger, with longer hair, but the same warm eyes and affectionate smile. And speaking of hair, mother of Bema, was that Eomer in the photo right at the end, maybe ten years old, with a haircut that looked as if someone had used an old bowl to cut it? What the fuck had the person behind that atrocity been thinking?

A voice behind her said, "You have to love the hair in that one, right?"

She put the photo back on the shelf, too quickly, knocking another two over. She set them to rights, one at a time, cheeks burning, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. "Love wasn't what I was thinking," she said, smiling as she turned to greet him. "Abject horror was where I was going."

Grinning, he came towards her. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Busy day. My last phone call ran a bit late." He leaned in to give her a welcoming kiss, no shyness, no hesitation, no pausing to ask. Not that she had any intention of pulling away. His hand was gentle on her cheek, his breath was warm, his lips were soft; as always, he tasted and smelled amazing. She relaxed against him, not thinking about anything physical yet, just enjoying the feeling of having him there, of being alone with him again. It was one of the things she hated most about who he was—how difficult it was to spend time with him.

He pulled away, showing a teasing smile, carefully licking his lips. He was having thoughts, but only a few—he wasn't ready to go at it on the dining room table just yet.

He stood back to look her over. "You look really nice." He reached out to free some hair caught up in her cardigan collar. "And it's a different outfit from the last one."

"You seem surprised."

"Only that you own two outfits that don't involve jeans and comfortable boots."

"There's that sense of humour of yours again." His own outfit was more formal than hers—suit trousers with a dress shirt. No tie or matching jacket; he must have shed those already. "At least I changed," she pointed out. "Unlike some people I could mention."

"Yes, sorry about that, I haven't had time." He plucked his trousers. "This is the suit I wore to my dinner engagement."

It was a lovely suit—an expensive-looking dark blue cloth with a light hint of a vertical stripe. "If you want to change, I'll wait," she said. And if he asked her nicely, she might even help him with his zips and buttons.

"No need. It's comfortable enough."

She realized then, what else about his outfit was out of place. "You got rid of your sling," she said, reaching out to stroke his now unfettered left arm.

"I certainly did." He waved the arm, but only a little. "Saw the doc today, he told me I could take it off, but not to do anything too adventurous with it."

No having vigorous sex while swinging from a chandelier, then...

"Must feel nice to not have to wear it," she said.

"Very."

She moved in to kiss him again. "Let me know if there's any other clothing you'd like to get rid of," she murmured, gently nipping his lower lip. "I'd be absolutely delighted to help."

"Lady Solwen, comport yourself, please," he said, feigning offense. "You've been here for barely five minutes. We haven't even had a drink yet."

As if he was any better—she knew exactly why he'd given her that lip-licking look. But there were rules to be followed, it seemed. "You should get me a drink, then," she said, nodding at the table behind him. "I'll take a white wine."

"Coming right up." He pulled the bottle out of the cooler to show it to her. "Pretty sure this is something you'll like."

She leaned in to peer at the label—a Calispel Valley Silex. Attention to detail; something she'd always liked in a man. "It certainly is."

He poured two generous glasses, handed her one, kept one for himself. "Cheers," he said, raising his glass. "What should we drink to?"

Tonight, she had the perfect response. "How about the fact you're still King?"

"Bema, yes, I'll go with that." He brought their glasses together. "You have _no_ idea, how glad I am the whole petition thing is done."

She took a sip, savouring the mineral start and elegant finish. "You're not worried Thenwis might try to raise it again at some point?"

He shook his head. "It's not impossible, but I highly doubt it." He turned to grab a snack from a plate. "The debate set a precedent, which anyone trying to raise a new petition on similar grounds would have to find a way to negate. I don't think she'll have the energy for that kind of fight."

"Or the political support."

"Yes, I doubt Keveleok will be in the mood to help her again anytime soon." He bit through the snack. "Or Camelor, for that matter."

"Pretty sure they'll both just wash their hands of her. Politely, of course. But they have nothing to gain from trying to stick with her."

"As long as they don't just start some other scheme with somebody else," he muttered. "Would quite like both of them to just leave me the hell alone for a while. Give me some peace and quiet."

"Keveleok will. She's never been the tenacious type, she knows when to call it quits. Pretty sure she'll leave you in peace."

"But Camelor?"

"Not sure. He's another bag of oats altogether. He never gives up until he's covered all options." As evidenced by the fact he'd set up a spy in the Palace. Which led her to her next question. "Which reminds me, did you make any progress on that email I gave you?"

"Not yet, no. At least, none my security people have so far felt the need to tell me about. They're looking into it. They'll come back when they have something solid."

"Colwenna told me you'd had to make some security changes," she said. "One of your guards, Vonnal, he was in the garage with her when I arrived. And Yelisan seemed a little on edge. She wasn't as chatty as usual."

"Algrin's been interviewing people," he said. She remembered that name—the man who'd taken her through the rules about how and when she could contact the King. "I admitted to him and Fastmer that she's been picking you up more or less off-the-books, so she was probably one of the first people he spoke to."

Off-the-books; that sounded like something somebody shouldn't have done. "She's not in any trouble, is she?"

"Of course not. The off-the-books part was me and Colwenna, Yelisan was just doing her job. But given what questions Algrin probably asked, and that he probably told her not to breathe a word of it to anyone else, it's not hard to see why she's feeling on edge. In her place, I would be as well."

Solwen took the various things he'd just told her, pieced them together in her head. "So, um, if you told some of your people about me, and I was allowed to come in through the main door, does that, uh, does that mean this is"—she scrunched her face, annoyed she couldn't find the right words—"what I mean is—"

"Is this official?" he suggested, smiling softly. "Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Yes."

"It is from my perspective." Quickly, he added, "I mean, not _publicly_ official, obviously, I'm not taking you to a movie premiere with me anytime soon, but privately official, yes."

"That's nice to know."

This seemed like the perfect time to ask him about that other thing—what the situation with Seorsa was. But official or not, did she even have the right to ask? It was something from his private life; was it really any of her concern? And what if asking him offended him to the point it would ruin their date? Maybe, but she had to know, and this would probably be the best opening she had all night.

She took a generous gulp of her wine. "Can I ask you another question, then? One you might not be willing to answer?"

"I won't know until you ask it."

She took a breath, going for the plain-speaking Marcher approach. "What's going on between you and Seorsa Camelor?"

His glass froze halfway to his mouth. Emotions flashed over his face—shock, anger, regret, a tiny hint of guilt to finish. He sipped his wine, taking his time. In a carefully neutral tone, he said, "What makes you think there's anything going on?"

"A rumour I heard. She came to watch the rebuttal speech, stopped by after to thank my dad. One of the other earls who was there"—best not to incriminate Jonrick for now—"told me the gossip about town is that the two of you are involved." Involved. That lovely euphemism again.

"Involved. Right." He turned to the table to examine the snacks. "Would you believe me if I told you we were at one point, but we're not anymore?"

"Does Seorsa know that? That you're not involved anymore, I mean?"

"She certainly does."

Relief flooded through her. "So, you, um, you haven't been double-dipping between me and the Countess, then?"

"I haven't, no." He showed her a dirty grin. "But when you put it like that, it gives me some _extremely_ interesting ideas."

She poked him, hard enough to make him wince. "I am _not_ having a threesome with you and Seorsa Camelor. His Majesty can just nip his _interesting ideas_ in the bud."

He put his glass down and came to gently cup her face. "It was a joke. And a pretty bad one at that. One I probably shouldn't have made. I'm sorry." He looked her firmly in the eye. "I am not involved with Seorsa Camelor now. I haven't seen her since the middle of May. Since before you and I even met." He kissed her on the forehead. "There's nothing to worry about."

"Good. And it's not that I'm possessive, or anything. You don't have to worry about that. I just want to know where I stand."

"There's nobody else in your way, I promise." He stepped back, retrieving his glass.

Satisfied, she closed the issue and put it to bed. "So, have you seen the coverage yet?" she asked. "Of the speeches today?"

He nodded. "I watched it here, between some meetings. Not the whole thing. When I tuned in, the Countess had just wrapped up. But I saw all of your father's speech."

"So, what did you think? Of his rebuttal, I mean?"

"I don't know." He stared into his wine as he swirled it. "I'm still trying to decide."

"What the hell do you need to decide?"

"Half of me wants to have him knighted, half of me wants to have him publicly flogged in Rohan Square."

Outrage surged on her father's behalf. His speech had probably saved the King's crown—why the hell did he deserve to be punished? And what the fuck was it with this family and their flogging obsession? Was it how they disciplined their children? Or what they did to relatives who stepped out of line? "Don't see why you should be anything other than appreciative of what he did. The Countess gave a good defense of the legal issues, but everyone says it was my dad's speech that really put the nail in the coffin."

"Oh, I'm appreciative, don't get me wrong," he said, quickly back-tracking. "If I thought I could get away with it, I would send him a thank you card and a bottle of wine." Which, given the whole Crown Neutrality business, he couldn't. Sighing, he added, "I just wish he'd done it in a slightly less provocative manner."

She shrugged. "Provocative is kind of our thing."

"I've noticed that, yes," he said drily.

"I'm willing to admit, some of what he said was a _little_ bit incendiary," she said. "But it's just how my dad is. He doesn't like it when things are unfair."

"But isn't that just how the world is?" He shrugged. "Some people have things, some people don't. Not sure we'll ever be able to change that."

"No, but we can make it easier for the have nots to become haves. And for them to have the basic, decent things any civilized society should be _happy_ to let them have. Health care. An education. A roof over their head. Food on the table. A decent minimum wage."

"I certainly can't argue with that." His expression turned pensive. "It horrifies me, you know, how many children in Rohan live below the poverty line, how our country can be so rich, but leave so many people with nothing. But I don't see how reforming the Hall of Lords would do anything to ease that problem."

"The money you save, for one. The allowance the Earl of Lindgarn takes, it adds up to just under fifty grand a year. That could feed a whole school of kids for the same amount of time. Maybe even longer."

"I won't argue the system needs to be overhauled." Pensive turned to disgusted. "And so does the point your dad raised about the Earl of Manarta."

"Everyone's favourite convicted kiddie fiddler."

He swirled his wine again. "I, um, strictly between you and me"—he stared at her, raising his brows, reinforcing the strictly part—"I'm going to speak to the PM on Tuesday, ask her to table a bill in the next session that would do what your dad suggested, force people convicted of indictable crimes to give up their seats."

"It would have to be just for their lifetime, of course," she pointed out. "Not a permanent loss of the seat. The heir should be allowed to inherit when the time comes."

"Of course."

"But it's definitely a point worth raising." She grinned. "You'll need to tell me how Harbrand responds."

He snorted. "With something positive, I hope."

"She'd be an idiot if she didn't pursue it. Punish a convicted sex offender who also happens to be a wealthy, privileged earl? Doesn't get more populist than that."

"And speaking of wealthy, privileged earls, did you see how _Camelor_ voted?" he said.

"I certainly did. Can't say I'm entirely surprised. I know my dad wasn't. He says Camelor's two greatest skills are knowing how to manipulate people and when to jump from a sinking ship. He knew the petition was done the Earl of Romengar put his foot in it."

Eomer groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "Romengar, Bema, what the _hell_ was the man thinking?"

"I don't think he was thinking at all."

"It's going to be the most embarrassing moment of his whole life." Sighing, he added, "To be honest, I almost felt sorry for him."

"Don't. He knew exactly what he was getting into when he agreed to help Keveleok. Nobody forced him to do what he did or say what he said."

He grabbed another snack. "Have you spoken to Lady Elisend?"

"Not yet, no." She was desperate to speak to Ellie, but at the same time, she wasn't. "I texted her an hour or so ago, but she hasn't answered me yet."

He huffed. "She's not the only one doing that."

"Sorry?"

"I texted Elf on the way to my dinner thing, asked him if he knew how his uncle was doing, he hasn't answered me either."

"Maybe he took Ellie out to get drunk." That seemed like the kind of thing Elfhelm would do. "Console her for having such an arse of a father."

Tutting, he shook his head at her. " _Manners_ , My Lady. That's an Earl of Rohan you're talking about."

"An Earl of Rohan who's a mean, petty, small-minded fuck." Eomer blinked in shock, but she'd seen Ellie's father in action; she knew how much her words were deserved. "If I thought he would realize he'd made a mistake, go apologize to all the impacted people, I would maybe have some sympathy for him, but I know fine well he'll do no such thing." She sipped her wine, trying to calm her rising temper. "He'll insist he didn't do anything wrong until he runs out of breath. And he'll take his frustration out on people who can't respond, and who've done absolutely nothing to deserve it." Like his only daughter, for one.

"I don't know him well, so I'll take your word for it."

"Oh, and speaking of taking people's word for things, you'll have to talk to the Earl of Elgoll."

"Why?"

"Because he told the Hall that you'd told him you'd given up racing," she explained. "Except, Elfhelm told me you'd done no such thing, which means his father lied. Not badly enough to keep anyone awake at night, but I know how honourable he is, so you should tell him your decision firsthand, give him some kind of retroactive cover."

"I'll tell him on Saturday night."

Another mention of a Saturday social event. "Okay, is there some kind of party on Saturday nobody's invited us to?" she said. "Lady Darkfald mentioned something as well."

"The Elgolls are holding a big Solstice dinner. The Darkfalds are on the guest list." He snickered. "But I'm going to take a wild guess the Hamelmarks aren't."

And never would be, without some kind of divine intervention. When one was an Elgoll, one did _not_ invite a Hamelmark to one's house. "We're having our own dinner thing anyway, so it's not as if we would even go."

He frowned. "Okay, hang on a minute, you said Elfhelm told you I hadn't talked to his dad?"

"Yes?"

"So, you saw him today?"

She nodded. "He came to the Hall to watch the rebuttals. He sat in the gallery with us."

"Us?"

"Me and my older brother."

His face lit up. "Oh, so they've met, then?"

"They certainly have."

"And?"

She sighed. "They came, they saw, they flirted."

"Really?"

"Was absolutely exhausting. I was sitting between them. Had to listen to them eye-fucking each other."

"Give Elf a week, he'll turn it into fucking with something else."

"That long?"

He grinned. "I was being polite." He grabbed the bottle from the cooler, topped up her glass, then his. "Should we grab a seat?" he said, gesturing at the couch. "Or, maybe her Ladyship would care for a tour of the royal apartment?"

"The tour sounds nice."

"Which side first?" he said, gesturing from one wall of the room to the other. "Public or private?" The filthy smile came out again. "I think her Ladyship might be quite interested in the master bedroom."

"Actually, there's another room I'd like to see first." Not that she didn't want to see his master bedroom as well, but all in good time.

"Which room's that?"

"When I turned up, Colwenna told me you were in your office, wrapping up a last-minute call."

"Uh huh?"

"Is it in this apartment? Or somewhere else in the Palace?"

"It's in this apartment." He gestured through the massive reinforced door. "Just next to where you came in."

"Can I see it?" she said.

"Why the hell would you even want to?"

"Humour me. Show me the centre of royal power." She could hardly tell him 'because I want you to do me over your desk'. At least, not until she was actually there.

He looked at her askance. "You _really_ want to see it?"

"I do, absolutely, yes."

"You sure you wouldn't prefer to see my bedroom instead?" he asked, as subtle as a brick to the skull. "I have the biggest bed you've _ever_ seen. Super comfortable. _And_ it's a really convenient height," he added.

So was something else she could think of. "We can come back to that. Let me see your office first."

"Nobody's ever wanted to see my office before."

She tried not to think about who 'nobody' was. "I'm a politician's daughter. I guess I just have different ambitions."

Sighing, he took her glass, put it on the table with his and led her to the door. "Come on, then."

"This is quite a door," she said, patting the frame as she passed. "Like something you would see in a bank. Looks like it could repel an invasion."

"It's supposed to be assault-proof and bullet-proof, so it probably could. Oh, and sound-proofed as well, you'll be pleased to know."

"So, if we ever want to make a lot of noise, we should make it all in the private side of the suite?"

"Exactly."

She followed him into the formal rooms, now lit only by some ambient lights. "Something tells me you don't use these two rooms very much," she said as they walked.

"I don't." He skirted around a camel-back couch. "I only use them when I entertain people I don't want to host in any of the main rooms downstairs." He led her into the dining room, past the beautiful table. "Not often, it's usually friends, or official guests with special personal or security needs."

In the vestibule, she was surprised to see the outer doors were closed. "Shouldn't those be open?" she said, pointing to them.

He shook his head. "I close them when I have private guests. It's a message, tells everyone in the Palace I don't want to be disturbed." He led her across the vestibule, to the regular door in the far left corner. "This is my office in here," he said, holding his thumb to the security scanner set into the handle. He raised a finger at her. "Look, but don't touch."

She flipped a salute. "No touching, I promise." Not the things in his office, at least.

The door opening triggered the lights. He led her into what turned out to be a depressingly normal office space—an antique desk, one comfortable leather chair behind, three smaller leather chairs in front, a reading couch at the window, bookcases dotted about the walls, a handful of tasteful paintings, a couple of photos in frames, costly trinkets scattered in various places.

"You look disappointed," he said.

She couldn't help but wrinkle her nose. "It's _awfully_ normal."

"It's my office. Of course it's normal. What the hell were you expecting? A golden throne? Mirrors on the walls and ceilings?"

"Not sure. But something a _little_ more exciting than this." She examined a figurine on a shelf. Antique Belfalasian glass; probably worth a few hundred grand. "Is this room sound-proofed as well?" she asked.

He nodded. "It has an anti-eavesdrop security system." He closed the door, flicked a switch on the wall. "It's armed right now. You could be killing a balrog in here, the guards out front would never know."

She wasn't planning on being that loud, but never say never. A panelled door in the southwest corner caught her eye. "What's that?" Probably something absolutely mundane—a toilet or a lockable cupboard.

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

He grinned. "Can't tell you that, either."

She huffed. "Okay, now you're just being an arse."

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise to never tell anyone else."

"I promise, I won't breathe a word to a soul."

He led her to the door, held his thumb to another built-in scanner. A lock clicked, he opened the door to show her a staircase leading down. "It's an escape route," he said. "A way out if my office ever comes under attack. Don't ask me where it goes, because I absolutely can't tell you that."

The passage was plunged in total darkness; she couldn't see more than a few steps in. "Think I'd have to be facing certain death to want to go down there."

"It wouldn't be dark." He jogged a few steps down—a light on the ceiling sprang to life, illuminating a dozen steps more. "It's all motion activated."

"Okay, but you haven't just triggered an alarm in your security office, have you?"

He shook his head. "There's an alarm on the door at the end, but not up here." He jogged back up. "So, that's my secret tunnel," he said, shutting the door.

"Any other secrets?" she asked, looking around. "Spy holes, rotating bookcases, two-way mirrors, that kind of thing?"

"Nope. That's it."

She sauntered to his desk to lower herself into his chair—a luxury, ergonomic model that had probably cost as much as most people earned in a year. He didn't seem to mind—maybe sitting didn't count as touching. "So, this is where you wield your royal authority," she said.

He shrugged. "What little royal authority I still have to wield, yes."

An expensive Lasgalene fountain pen was sitting at the edge of the blotter. She pointed at it. "Is that the pen you use to sign the official stuff?"

"It certainly is." He tutted as she reached for it. "What did I just say about not touching things?"

"It's just a pen. I won't break it." Carefully, she picked it up, pulled off the lid, examined it, put the lid on and put it back down. Such a small thing, with so much historical weight. The stories it could probably tell…

She rose from the chair, slowly walking around the desk, trailing a finger along the edge. A nice, thick, rounded edge, she noticed. Much more comfortable than the usual sharp, right angle finish. "This is a very nice desk."

"It is."

"The Celebrant Desk, right?" Not as famous as the Prime Minister's desk, but a pretty close second.

His eyes narrowed; suspicion was forming. "That's right."

She perched on the front, pushed down on the top with her hands, testing how much weight it could bear. "It's quite sturdy."

"No," he instantly said.

"No, what?"

He raised a finger. "We are _not_ having sex on my desk."

"Don't tell me it's never crossed your mind?"

"That's not the point. This desk has been used by every King of Rohan since Folca. It was a gift from the people of Gondor. It's an antique. Priceless. Almost a national treasure. It would be like having sex on Eorl's tomb."

Which she would happily do with him as well. "I bet you my inheritance King Fengel fucked someone on it."

"We are _not_ thinking about that right now."

She pushed off the table, moving forward to hook a finger over his buckle. "Speak for yourself. Because I'm _absolutely_ thinking about it."

"No," he repeated, more firmly.

She dropped her hand, gently grasping him through his trousers, enjoying the feeling of something coming to life underneath. "Are you sure about that?"

His breath hitched. "Gods, not here," he murmured, resistance evaporating, leaning forward to rest his head against hers. "Please," he pleaded. "Let's go back to my room. Let me fuck you on my couch instead. Or over it. Whatever you want."

She started to stroke. "I don't want to go back to your room. I don't want to fuck you on your couch." She did, but later. "I want to fuck you here." She shrugged. "Or get on my knees and go down on you here. Whatever His Blessed Majesty wants."

He muttered something she couldn't make out. "You're an absolutely terrible person," he said.

"I'm not terrible at all." She took a step back, pulling him with her until her butt bumped into the front of the desk. "I'm actually quite good." Her hand went back to his buckle. Slowly, teasingly, holding his gaze, biting her lip, she undid his belt, popped the button on his trousers, ever-so-slowly pulled down the zip and slipped a hand in.

Groaning, he lifted her onto the desk to kiss her again. It wasn't gentle or tender this time, it was hard and messy and demanding. His tongue was in her mouth, his fingers were in her hair, his hips were pushing between her thighs, the hardness at his groin was pressing against her. Guts on fire, she snaked her hand inside his briefs. He didn't need any encouragement; he was already as hard as a post. "His Majesty seems a little bit tense," she murmured.

"His Majesty had an extremely stressful day." A hand came up to massage her breast. "He could be forgiven for not feeling entirely relaxed."

"Good thing I know exactly how to relax him, then, isn't it?" She gripped him harder as she stroked, eliciting another groan.

"Oh, fuck," he murmured, closing his eyes, burying his head in her neck. One hand stayed on her breast, the other moved to cover her busy hand, helping her to set the right pace. His hips started to move in time. "For the love of Bema, don't stop what you're doing, please."

"Feel good?"

She felt him swallow. "Uh huh."

She licked his ear and whispered, "Wouldn't you rather put it somewhere warmer instead? Somewhere tighter?"

He pulled away just far enough to meet her eyes. She squeezed again, putting a tiny twist at the end of her stroke. Groaning, he leaned his head all the way back, then forward again, resting his temple on hers. His breathing was quiet and rapid. "I would, very much, but I also don't want you to stop."

Which was all well and good, but she wasn't asking him just to tease him—her own insides were burning as well. Right now, she wanted nothing more than for him to spread her over this priceless, antique desk and ball her into next week.

She took the hand on her breast, singled out his index finger, brought it to her slowly mouth to suck it. "Solwen, oh, fuck," he murmured, closing his eyes. She took the finger, guided it under her dress and into her panties, letting him feel she was as desperate for him as he was for her.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. He kissed her again, as hard and messy and wet as before. Groaning into her mouth, he yanked her skirt up over her hips; three quick tugs and her panties came off. She started to undo the buttons on his dress shirt, gave up when she was two buttons down and just ripped the stupid thing open, scattering the other buttons all over the room. He pulled away, blinking, eyes following a bouncing disc, opening his mouth to complain. She grabbed him by the hair to pull his mouth onto hers again. "I'll buy you another," she murmured, pushing her tongue between his lips. Ten, if that's what it would take. She ran her fingers down his chest and stomach, tanned and toned, feeling him tense up under her touch. She dropped her hands to his waist, pushing his briefs and trousers out of the way, stroking and squeezing him again. "Now, for the love of Bema, before I pass out from the strain, will you just make love to me, please?"

Precisely, with skill and stamina and finesse, in a variety of stimulating positions, His Majesty did as he was told…

There was only a lamp on in the front hall, so the Amerwens and the Briothas must have packed up and gone, but a quick peek down the corridor showed a light at the back of the house. Someone—almost certainly her dad—was still up and about. He would be sprawled on the couch, watching TV with the sound off, waiting for Solwen to step through the door. And yes, maybe even Erland as well. Just because he didn't worry as much about his son didn't mean he didn't worry at all.

The message light on the phone was flashing. Solwen pressed the button to scroll through the list, amazed to see they'd taken fourteen calls tonight. Some unlabelled or withheld, some from colleagues or friends, but a few from media organizations, including _The Edoras Times_. No guesses as to why they were calling. But it wasn't her business—her dad would follow up with everyone tomorrow.

To Solwen's surprise, the waiting parent wasn't her dad. Nediriel was in the kitchen, wiping the counters, gathering up some glasses and plates. She turned as Solwen appeared at the door, showing a welcoming smile. "Hey," she said. "How was your date?"

"Was good."

"Do anything nice?"

Did two rounds of mind-blowing sex and a round of pillow-biting, hair-pulling head qualify as nice? It certainly did in Solwen's book. Especially the head. The _things_ His Majesty could do with his tongue. "We just relaxed and hung out," she said. On his desk, then on his bed, then on his couch, then up against the wall of his second, smaller, more private terrace. "Talked about stuff, ate some good food, drank some good wine." She shrugged. "The usual date things."

Nediriel cocked a dubious brow.

"What?" Solwen said.

Smiling, shaking her head, Nediriel turned to throw a cloth into the sink. "You're not fooling anyone you know. I know from the look on your face what you spent the night doing."

"What look?"

Nediriel came to hold her by the shoulders. "Solly, darling, you're almost _glowing_." Grinning, she whispered, "I know a night of fabulous sex when I see it."

Cheeks burning so hard she was sure they could heat the whole house, Solwen returned the grin. "It, um, it was quite a pleasant night, yes." Her guts clenched, and not in a good way. "Just don't tell dad I said that," she pleaded. "I mean, I know he knows I'm twenty-eight, and all grown up, and it's none of his business, but you know how he gets about these things."

Nediriel patted her shoulder and went back to tidying up. "Don't worry. I won't breathe a word. That's just between us girls."

Solwen checked the time—just after twelve. "Dad went to bed?"

"Forty minutes ago, when everyone left." Nediriel opened the dishwasher to load in some plates. "He had a little too much to drink, was threatening to break out the vinyl and voda, make an all-night party of it, but your brother talked him in off the ledge, herded him upstairs."

"Astalor?" She couldn't mean Erland—he wouldn't be home.

"He actually did a wonderful job." Nediriel slammed the dishwasher shut, the water jets started to churn. "He's getting to be better at managing your father than I am."

Quite an accomplishment, given how difficult their father could be. "We'll make a politician out of him yet."

"If it's all the same, I'd rather we didn't."

Grinning, Solwen asked, "No update from Erland, I guess?"

"Not so much as a peep. But he told us not to expect him to call." Sighing, Nediriel went to the sink to wash her hands. "Bema knows what the hell's he doing."

Except, it was probably more like _who_ he was doing—she might not be the only one having a night of fabulous fucking. "I'm sure he's fine. He's very sensible about these things."

"I know he is. And I know he's an adult, and I'm not his mother, but I still worry a little."

"You wouldn't be you if you didn't." Solwen grabbed a glass, went to fill it with water and gulp some down. Sex was great, but apparently dehydrating as well. "Ten quid says Erland calls off work tomorrow because he's hungover."

"He can keep your father company if he does."

"You think dad'll be hungover?"

Tartly raising her brows, Nediriel opened the recycling bin to pull out an empty bottle—the bottle of mead her dad had opened just after seven. "Jonrick, Heostan and your dad drank this whole bottle together. On top of wine and beer. They're _all_ going to be hungover."

Tomorrow morning was going to be fun. Stifling a yawn, she said, "You need a hand with anything?"

Nediriel shook her head. "All good. Just a few things left to clear up, but they can wait until morning." She made a shooing motion. "Go on. Take yourself to bed."

"Great. See you tomorrow." Another yawn threatened; she couldn't believe how tired she was.

"But there was something I meant to ask," Nediriel called out as Solwen reached the door. "About our Solstice dinner."

"What's that?"

"Is there anything Brendal can't eat?"

Why would she care what _Brendal_ could eat? "Sorry?"

"Brendal. Your boyfriend. The one you just spent the evening with," Nediriel prompted. "Is there anything he can't eat?"

Instantly, Solwen snapped awake. Her cover story, of course. She would have to be careful when she was tired, not let her guard down and give the whole game away. "Right, yes. Sorry." She showed a sleepy smile. "Wasn't thinking right. And I don't know, I'll text him tomorrow to check."

Frowning, Nediriel scrutinized her.

"What?" Solwen said.

"It's just"—Nediriel sighed—"this whole Brendal thing, if you don't mind me saying, it's still a little bit strange."

Solwen tensed. "How so?"

"You strike me as a rather odd couple." Nediriel held up a hand. "And not because of what he does for a living. Given how much you like bikes, that's the only part that makes sense." Another sigh. "I just, I guess I'm struggling to see what else the two of you have in common."

Standing there, tired, happy, thoroughly sated, a little bit sore, already desperate to see Eomer again, even though she'd kissed him goodbye barely twenty minutes ago, wondering if how she felt about him was lust or love, Solwen wanted nothing more than to tell her stepmother the truth. Trust wouldn't be a problem—Nediriel knew how to keep her mouth shut. But it was bad enough she herself was lying to her own dad—she couldn't expect Nediriel to lie to her own husband as well. As much as she wanted to open up and share, she couldn't. "Well, you know what they say. Sometimes, opposites attract."

"They certainly do." A warm smile now instead of a frown. "And if the sex is _that_ good, something must be working."

Memories of tonight came back, of Eomer gripping her hips so hard she thought she would bruise, of her quietly urging him not to stop, of the things they'd done to each other with fingers and mouths, of lying together afterwards, exhausted, sharing tender kisses, stroking skin and hair. It had all been amazing, and she couldn't wait to do it all over again.

"It certainly is."


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Algrin and Fastmer confront Fenbrand, Eowyn has a surprising suggestion, Colwenna is on the warpath, Aragorn finds the time to make a quick call to his fellow King.

**Friday June 19, 2020**

He'd never been in Algrin's office.

On the few occasions when the two of them had needed to meet, Algrin had always come to him. As was entirely fitting, in Fenbrand's opinion. Algrin might be the Head of Security for the whole Palace, but he himself was the King's Principal Private Secretary—the closest thing His Majesty had to a right-hand man.

But Algrin had explicitly asked Fenbrand to come to him this time, to discuss, in his words, 'a sensitive security matter'. So, here Fenbrand was. At eight o'clock on a Friday morning, venturing into parts (and buildings) unknown.

Pleasingly, Algrin's office wasn't as large as his own, had an inferior view of a less attractive part of the city, and was nowhere near as plushly equipped. But he was envious of the fireplace, which looked as if it actually worked, and wasn't merely for decoration. And Bema, was that a Mielen coffee machine in the corner? Why on earth did have one of those? _He'd_ never been offered the use of a Mielen. The machine better be Algrin's own, and not something the Palace had provided to him, or stern words would be had and ignorant heads would roll.

"Thank you for making the time this morning," Algrin said, waving Fenbrand into a comfortable chair. "I know how busy you are these days. I won't keep you any longer than I have to."

"You're quite welcome," Fenbrand said as he sat. "You said it was a sensitive matter, and you know I'm always happy to help." He would be even happier again if Algrin offered to use that lovely machine to make him a coffee…

The door opened, Fastmer stepped in. Not a person Fenbrand ever wanted to see before ten o'clock, but it was a sign of interesting things to come. If the head of the King's Guard was here, they must need to discuss a security matter about the King. And naturally, they needed Fenbrand's expertise. Some insight into what His Majesty was thinking, or how he might react. He couldn't think of why else they would need him here—security issues simply weren't his thing.

Fastmer nodded the curtest of greetings. "Fenbrand, Algrin." Annoyingly, he made no move to claim the other free seat, but positioned himself to the left of Algrin's desk, not quite leaning up against the wall. It was slightly unnerving. But maybe that was the point.

Fenbrand smiled politely at each colleague in turn. "So, what is it you would like to discuss?" he said, folding his hands in his lap.

"An extremely serious security matter," an unsmiling Algrin said. "One involving the King."

Just as he'd thought. "And may I ask, what is the nature of the matter?" Fenbrand said.

Algrin's eyes went to Fastmer, who said, "Someone in the Palace is spying on the King."

Anger rippled through him; this was _utterly_ outrageous news. "Do you know who?" Fenbrand said. "And when you say 'spying', what precisely do you mean?"

Fastmer didn't answer, but looked to Algrin, as if handing ownership of the issue back.

Algrin sat back in his chair, steepling his hands in front of his chest. "Why are you gathering private information about the King?" he said.

Fenbrand jerked in his chair, not quite believing what he'd just heard. "I beg your pardon?" he demanded.

"Why are you gathering private information about the King?" Algrin calmly repeated.

"I don't believe I am," Fenbrand said. This was all very strange; what in Eru's name did his colleagues think they were doing? "His Majesty's private affairs are none of my concern," he added. "Or yours, for that matter."

"We know you've asked other members of staff to report information about the King to you," Fastmer said, his voice as blunt and reproving as his gaze. "There's no point in trying to deny it."

Dear Gods. They hadn't brought him here to ask his advice. They'd brought him here to _interrogate_ him. _He_ was their sensitive security matter. And yes, he could see how his web-building activities might raise a few flags, but web-building and spying were two entirely different things. "I will admit, I have asked some members of the Household to relay information to me, yes," he said, conciliatory now. In a harder tone, he added, "But I am _not_ spying on the King. I am simply trying to serve His Majesty to the very best of my abilities."

"I'm not sure how knowing who the King is dating helps you to be good at your job," Algrin said.

Fenbrand shook his head. "I have never made _any_ attempt to find out who the King is dating." He held up a hand. "I will admit, information has made its way to me, but entirely of its own accord. Never because I've actively gone looking for it."

"Horseshit," Fastmer spat, making Algrin wince. "You asked one of my guards to pass on information about who it was the King met for lunch."

"Only because your guard told me the lunch had taken place," Fenbrand shot back, feeling his anger rising again. He remembered the conversation in question, knew _exactly_ who the guard was. "I did _not_ go to Godhild. She came to me, to let me know the King had been to lunch with someone. Until she approached me, I had no idea there had even been a lunch with a young woman, never mind who the young woman was."

"But you _did_ ask Godhild to keep you informed if she ever found out who the young woman was."

"And that was the only request I have ever made to anyone on the matter. I am no more aware of who His Majesty is involved with right now than you are."

Algrin and Fastmer shared a fleeting look. They knew. They _knew_ who the young woman was. The King had shared an important personal secret with his Head of Security and his Head Guard, but not with him. This wasn't just ridiculous, this was intolerable. "Gentlemen, precisely what are you accusing me of?"

Fastmer beat Algrin to it. "The Earl of Camelor has a spy in the Palace. All of the evidence points to it being you."

"The Earl of Camelor?" Fenbrand repeated. The mere thought of working for that terrible man… he almost couldn't find the words. "I would rather have my eyes and tongue cut out than pass so much as a single piece of information along to that… that _thug_ ," he spat. "I wouldn't sell him information about either of you, never mind about the King."

"Then why are you gathering _exactly_ the kind of information someone like Camelor would want?" Fastmer added. "And would pay a lot of money for?"

That was an accusation too far. Bad enough to be accused of spying, but to be accused of spying for something as grubby as financial gain? He wasn't going to listen to this. Fenbrand shot out of his chair, stiffly buttoning his coat. "I've heard enough. If you have any other questions, you can send them to my lawyer." Nodding curtly, he turned to head for the door.

"Fenbrand," Algrin called out.

"What?"

"I can't stop you from leaving. But if you _do_ leave, I'll have no choice but to tell the King that not only have you been collecting information about him, you've also refused to cooperate in our investigations." Algrin's smile was cold. "Investigations he knows are underway."

"If that happens, he'll fire you." Fastmer shrugged. "I mean, maybe not explicitly, you know what a soft touch he is, he'll probably phrase it as an early retirement instead, but he certainly won't let you stay on. He'll let you go, give your job to someone less nosy instead."

"I have served the King for eight years! Tirelessly, and without complaint!" Fenbrand shouted, anger streaming out now, going forward to slam his fist on the desk. "And his uncle, King Theoden for twenty-seven years before that! Nobody in this Palace is and has been as unswervingly loyal to the King as I am." Except maybe Colwenna, but her loyalty was of a more personal kind.

"Prove it," Fastmer said. "Explain why you're doing what you're doing. Help us clear your name."

"Fenbrand, _please_ ," Algrin urged. "I know you're offended, and understandably so. In your place, I would be offended as well. But don't let your pride lead you into making the worst mistake of your professional life. You've done so much. Don't end it like this."

Fenbrand's anger dissolved as quickly as it had risen. Algrin was right. He valued his professional pride, but he couldn't let it get in the way. Pausing to take a few calming breaths, he returned to his seat. "Does the King know you're speaking with me?" he said.

Algrin shook his head. "We wanted to speak to you first, see if there was a reasonable explanation for what you've been doing."

He couldn't look Algrin in the eye; he looked at his hands instead. "There is," he quietly admitted. "There's a reason I gather information about the King, and it's not because I'm Camelor's spy."

"Why, then?" Fastmer asked.

It took him a few moments to find the right words. "Because this job is all I have." Fenbrand raised his eyes to look at each colleague in turn, trying to make them understand. "I've never been married. I have no children. I have a few close friends, mostly people I know through work. For better or worse, I have made this job my life. I have made serving the Crown my life." He sat back, sighing, feeling slightly ashamed. "I have allowed myself to believe that serving the King means knowing everything he does. And where he does it, and who he does it with."

"Why?" Algrin asked, confused.

"Because what His Majesty does in his private life impacts how he behaves in his public life. And it's my job to manage his public life for him. Down to the tiniest detail."

"So, what, you think who he's dating impacts how well he can cut a ribbon?" Algrin asked. "Or give a speech? Or host a Privy Council session?"

"If who he is dating impacts his mood?" Fenbrand nodded. "Absolutely, yes." He looked to Fastmer. "You know as well as anyone in this Palace how much"—what diplomatic word to use—"how much _feeling_ His Majesty has."

Fastmer snorted. "Not the word I would use, but continue."

"Back in April, when _The Edoras Times_ published that opinion piece, questioning his fitness for the Crown, do you remember, what a foul mood he was in for the rest of the week?"

Sighing, Fastmer nodded. "He was like a horse with a bad case of colic. Never seen one person slam so many doors in my life."

"And when something nice happens, he's like a bag of purring kittens instead," Algrin concluded.

"And whether we like it or not, those moods have to be carefully managed," Fenbrand explained. "And I'm the one who manages them. When he's tired, I tell the staff to hold any heavy stuff until the next day. When he's impatient and raring to go, I warn people not to spend too much time on long, boring speeches. When he's thoughtful and quiet, I warn them not to rush him or chatter at him too much. I've even told the staff on the admin floor what His Majesty's favourite chocolate bars are, so they know to leave at least one of each in the vending machine."

"Why doesn't he just ask someone to bring one to him?" said Algrin.

"Algrin, your guess is as good as mine."

"It's a self sufficiency thing," Fastmer explained. "I think His Majesty thinks if he can still use a vending machine, that he's not completely helpless."

Algrin frowned. "Where does he even get the money?"

"He keeps a jar of coins in his shelf."

"Which _I_ ensure is kept topped up," Fenbrand added. "And I know when to top it up because I _pay attention_."

"So, all your information gathering, that's just more ways of paying attention?" Algrin said.

"Precisely."

"Are you sure that's just it?" Fastmer said, eyeing him with suspicion. "There isn't another, more personal reason?"

Cheeks burning a little, Fenbrand cleared his throat. "I will admit, sometimes, I like to know things simply for the sake of knowing them. Not because they have any use."

"You're nosy," Fastmer said.

Damn the man and his impudent bluntness. "If that's the word you want to use, yes."

"Which wouldn't be a problem," Fastmer went on, "if you hadn't built your own information-gathering network."

"I never meant any harm." But even to his ears, the excuse sounded weak.

"You didn't, no," Algrin said. He was obviously taking the 'good cop' role today. "But you're the King's Principal Private Secretary. One of the four most important members of the Royal Household. Not one of the lads in the garage, or one of the girls in the canteen. When you ask people to pass on information, you give everyone the impression that gossiping and spying is tolerated from the top down. Encouraged, even." He waved to Fastmer. "Godhild only started gathering information because she thought it would be good to have you owe her a favour. That's absolutely not an environment any of us should be trying to build. You need to set a better example." He let out a sigh. "We all do."

Quietly, wishing the ground could open up and swallow him whole, Fenbrand admitted, "I realize that now, yes."

"I have some other questions to ask," Algrin said.

"Of course."

"If we look at your phone and financial records, will we find anything suspicious? Any calls or emails to irregular people? Any deposits not from an explainable source? Any wire transfers out to foreign accounts?"

"You will not, no," said Fenbrand, firmly.

"Will you give us access to them?"

His pride threatened to rise up again; Fenbrand forced it back. "I was under the impression you need a warrant for that."

Algrin's smile was predatory. "Only if you don't consent."

And not giving consent would be viewed as evidence of guilt. "I would obviously rather not, but if that's what it takes to convince you I'm telling the truth, then yes, I will." Fenbrand waved to Algrin's computer. "I'll log in to my personal bank account right now, you can search my records as much as you want." He forced a smile, trying to lift the mood. "But please don't judge me for how much money I spend on opera tickets and books."

The smile was friendlier now. "The thought wouldn't even cross my mind." Algrin glanced to Fastmer, who shook his head slightly. "But I don't think we need to go there just yet."

His openness had persuaded them, then. As it damn well should…

Fenbrand rose from the chair, more calmly this time. "If there's nothing more, I'd like to get back to work. His Majesty has asked me to put out a comment on the defeat of the Colafell petition, I need to deal with that ASAP."

"Nothing more today, no," Algrin said.

"But the information gathering stops," Fastmer added, making it clear his words were an order, not a request. "Whatever web you've put together, you leave this room, and you go take it apart."

Fenbrand dipped his head in acquiescence. "Of course." As he reached the door, he realized he had some insight to share. "Did you know, historical espionage operations are an interest of mine?" He looked to Fastmer. "Particularly the work the Intelligence Corps did in the Third Southern War?"

"Really?" said Fastmer, curious, but cautious as well.

Fenbrand nodded. "I don't know as much about the subject as you do, of course, but I _do_ have a decent understanding of why people spy."

"It's money," was Fastmer's blunt opinion. "Pure and simple. There's no ideology or ego at work here."

"You're not worried it's a compromise case? That someone is spying because they're under duress? Because the Earl of Camelor has something on them?" It wouldn't surprise Fenbrand in the slightest—the Earl had proven time and again he was happy to go raking through muck if it brought him what he wanted.

"There would have to be something in their personal life he could use against them," Algrin said. "That would come up either in an initial background check, or in our annual security audit. I agree with Fastmer, it's almost certainly for money. The Earl's an _extremely_ wealthy man."

"He's also an extremely vindictive and creative man. And that makes him very good at finding weak spots where nobody else would think to look."

Fastmer sighed. "Fenbrand, whatever you're trying to tell us, just spit it out."

"I'm saying, I agree with both of you, our spy is almost certainly working for money. But it might not be obvious. Camelor might be paying them in non-standard ways you won't see by looking at a bank statement." He aimed another smile at Fastmer. "Like what happened with Seresca."

"Who's Seresca?" Algrin asked, looking to Fastmer.

"Bregon Seresca," Fastmer said. "Gondorian intelligence analyst who sold out to the Haradrim at the start of the Third Southern War. He knew he wouldn't be able to explain any cash or unusual deposits, so the Haradrim set up a fake academic scholarship program, paid his son's medical school tuition."

"How did they catch him?"

"A series of _ridiculously_ unlikely events. The son finished at the top of his class, gave the scholarship people a shout out in his graduation speech. A journalist at the ceremony went digging, trying to find out more for a piece, the Haradrim panicked, had him killed, but they used a rookie, he left his fingerprints all over the scene. Quite literally. They caught him, he blabbed, the whole thing unravelled from there."

Algrin blinked. "That's…"

"Extraordinary? Outlandish? The kind of thing that only happens in books?" Fastmer shook his head. "All true, unfortunately. And if Fenbrand's right, it might take a similar series of unlikely events for us to find our man."

"Wonderful," Algrin muttered.

"If there's any other way I can help, please let me know," Fenbrand said. He felt rather drained, and he'd said enough; it was time for him to see himself out.

"Just keep an eye on your staff," Fastmer said. "If you see or hear anything suspicious, let one of us know. And be extra careful of what information about the King you share with whom."

Algrin added, "And don't share anything we've discussed here today with anyone outside this room. Not even the King. Is that clear?"

"Of course." Fenbrand gave each of his colleagues a courteous nod. "I give you my word, my lips are sealed."

They waited ten seconds—enough time to be sure Fenbrand would have moved to the end of the hall.

"So," Algrin asked, swivelling in his chair to raise his brows at his colleague. "What did you make of all that?"

Fastmer rubbed his face. "As much as it pains me to admit it, I think he's telling the truth."

"You don't think he's our man?"

"He's not our spy," Fastmer said. "A nosy, gossiping bastard, yes. A spy for the Earl of Camelor, no."

"If it's any consolation, I agree with your assessment."

Fastmer almost smiled. "It is, yes. Means my instincts aren't off."

And Algrin knew, the day Fastmer realized his instincts were off would be the day he retired. "So, what do we do now? Do we look at Godhild again? Or should I start talking to the next round of people?"

"Both, I think. Keep going with the interviews, let's see what we find on Godhild when the warrant comes in."

"How's she been?"

"Quiet, but cooperative. I've given her all the crappy shifts, and she knows it, but she hasn't uttered so much as a word of complaint. She's just keeping her head down, getting on with her job."

"Any sign of strain or panic?"

"Not that I've noticed, no."

A good thing, in Algrin's opinion. When you worked in security, panic was never good…

This was the happiest she'd felt in a month; she wanted to skip along the King's Hall.

Was it appropriate for a princess to skip? Eowyn knew what granna Morwen would say, but granna Morwen wasn't here, so granna Morwen could stick her rules where even the morning sun couldn't shine.

She skipped once, for Uncle Ted, trying to replace his solemn gaze with a smile.

At the door, neither Guthlaf nor Mordoc so much as blinked. True to their training, they kept their expressions totally blank, and their gazes fixed straight ahead. As she passed through the door, they dipped their heads in the usual courteous bow. Whatever they thought of her skipping, they kept to themselves.

Like a child on a hunt to steal some cookies, she tiptoed up to the door of Eomer's office. She took the handle, and without bothering to knock or call out, burst right in, frightening her brother so badly he dragged his pen across the document he'd been signing, ruining the imprint of his regnal initial.

"Wynna, for the love of Bema, don't do that, please," he said, giving her a kingly glare. He flapped a hand at the vandalized page. "The hell am I supposed to do with this now?"

"It's just some boring government thing." Before he could stop her, she plucked the document from his desk. It was only a Foreign Office missive, nothing of any major concern. "I doubt anyone will actually read it, much less care that you had an accident with it."

He snatched the document back. "So," he said, starting to put the missive back in the box, then giving up and adding it to his signed pile. "What are you here for today?" He scrunched his face. "And why the hell are you _bouncing_?"

She couldn't help but smile. "I'm bouncing because I'm happy."

"And why are you happy?"

Should she tell him she was happy partly because she knew he'd had a third date? She wanted him to know how pleased she was for him, but she didn't want to put him on edge by making him think she was keeping tabs on him. Which, admittedly, she was, but only a little. Only enough to know what was going on; not so much she knew who it was going on with.

Besides, there were bigger things to be happy about today.

"I'm happy because Thenwis and her petition are done." She unfolded her copy of _The Edoras Times_ to drop it onto his desk. _Royal Cousin's Quest For Crown Defeated_ the headline on the article said. The article wasn't in the top half of the page—most of that space had been allocated to a piece about the Earl of Hamelmark's calls for reforms—but at least it was on the front. "I hope she hadn't booked someone to paint her royal portrait for her, because she's not going to need one now."

Sighing, he pulled the paper towards him. "I won't deny, it's a huge relief."

"Did you watch the coverage yet? Of the actual rebuttal speeches?"

He nodded. "I haven't seen Lady Darkfald's speech, haven't had the chance, but I watched Lord Hamelmark's as it happened."

"And what did you think?"

"I thought it was pretty good."

"Pretty good?" she repeated, feeling strangely offended on His Lordship's behalf. "That's all you have to say?"

"What the hell else do you want me to say?"

"Eomer, in the space of a thirty minute speech, a speech he gave without once referring to his notes"—an inhuman feat, in Eowyn's opinion—"not only did the Earl of Hamelmark utterly demolish the petition's chances, he also highlighted every single way the Hall needs to be reformed. You must have something to say about that?"

Eomer pushed the paper away, grabbed another document from his box. "Wouldn't have thought you'd want reforms. You've always been the 'steady as she goes' type."

"There's a difference between reform and revolution. I have no patience at all for the latter. But the former? Absolutely, yes." She wrinkled her nose, remembering one important point from Hamelmark's speech. "Especially if it gets rid of the Earl of Manarta. It's an absolute travesty he's still allowed to sit in the Hall."

"I'm going to speak to the PM about that on Tuesday." He scribbled his signature, added the document to the signed pile. "Ask her to consider some legislation on the issue."

"Just be careful. She might view that as political interference."

"I'll be a paragon of royal diplomacy, I promise."

"That'll be a first."

He checked the time—just past eight-fifteen. "No offense, but I'm leaving for an engagement soon, and I'd like to finish these before I go," he said, pointing to what was left in his box. "Was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?"

"One other thing. I'll make it quick, you can sign while I talk."

"What's the thing?"

"The Midsummer party. I'd like to add two more guests."

Another document came out; his pen went to work again. "You don't need my permission for that."

"I don't, no. But with these two guests, I thought I should check."

"It's not the Earl and Countess of Romengar, is it?" he said with a pained expression. "I'm not sure I could look the man in the face."

"Not the Romengars, no." Even if it was them, she doubted they would even accept—they would be in hiding now until at least September.

"Then, who?"

"The Hamelmarks."

His pen paused mid-stroke; he blinked. "Sorry?"

"I'd like to invite the Earl and Countess of Hamelmark to the Midsummer Party," she said.

"Why?" he said, with a look of curious horror on his face.

"As a thank you for doing such a marvellous job with the rebuttal."

"Couldn't you just, I don't know, send them a nice bottle of wine or some flowers instead?"

"I thought about that. I think this is better."

"You might want to check with the Countess of Darkfald first." He scratched his signature again. "Pretty sure the Earl's speech will be giving her kittens."

It probably was—Erella was definitely the 'steady as she goes' type—they would find out just how many kittens at the Solstice dinner tomorrow. "Erella's a friend, but who I do or don't invite to our Midsummer party is none of her concern. I want to thank the Earl of Hamelmark, and this seems a nice way to do it."

"You think they'll even accept?"

"Lady Solwen and her brother accepted, so I don't see why not."

"Do we even have room?"

"It's only two people. We always overplan a little. We won't even need to tell the caterers to adjust."

He sighed. "Go on, then," he said. "Put them on the list. We're already inviting the kids. Might as well invite the parents as well."

Just a pity there wasn't any real need to have the daughter at the party now, if Eomer's 'thing' had reached a third date. And not just Lady Solwen—all the other single female guests she'd invited to the party as potential marriage bait as well. But it was what it was—she couldn't exactly uninvite people.

"I'll have Seonell send out the invite today. Get it to them tomorrow."

He wagged his pen. "That reminds me. When are the invites for the anniversary banquet going out?"

"Next Friday. We always send them out at the six week mark." Which he would already know if he ever bothered to get involved in the work.

He smirked. "Are we inviting the Earl and Countess of Hamelmark to that?"

"As it happens, yes, we are."

"Really?"

"It's a formal state event, so we're inviting the highest-ranking peers and their spouses. We've made room for the top fifteen, Lord Hamelmark is number ten."

"Huh." His pen paused, the look of abject horror returned. "Okay, but does that mean we're inviting Camelor? And Romengar? And Keveleok?"

Sighing, she nodded. "And Hereoch and Strone as well."

"For the love of Bema, don't put the Earl of Strone next to anyone's attractive wife," he pleaded. "He'll try to father an illegitimate child with them by the end of the night. And don't put Camelor next to Hamelmark. Or Keveleok. Or Romengar. Or _anyone_." Sighing, he snatched another sheet of paper. "Just leave him at a table for one by the door."

"Seating will be strictly by order of precedence, so he'll go between the Hereochs and the Vosburgs."

He grunted. "That's not too bad, I suppose. The Countess of Vosburg's a tough old bird. She'll know how to keep him in check."

"And that's assuming he even accepts. Which he might not. You know how much he hates formal events."

"It's going to be the biggest social event of the year. Everyone who's anyone in Rohan will be there. There's no _way_ he'll decline."

She shrugged. "You know what they say. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

"When it's Camelor, it's always the worst."

It certainly was. But no point in picking over that problem right now—they could worry about it in the weeks to come. She'd come here to do one thing, and that thing was now done. "That's all I wanted, so I'll let you get back to your day."

As the door clicked shut, Eomer let out a groan.

He and Solwen would have to spend the whole Midsummer party pretending they'd only just met. Hard enough in a roomful of his loose acquaintances and friends. But now they would have to fake it in front of her father and stepmother as well? A father who was notoriously good at figuring out what people were hiding? The only safe solution would be for him and Solwen to not say a single word to each other after the introductions were done. Which might seem a bit rude, but better for people to think he was rude than for the Earl to find out the truth.

Maybe it was time to confess. To one person, at least. If he told Eowyn who he was dating, he could explain the situation to her, ask her not to invite the Hamelmarks to the party after all. She would understand the situation, surely? Or, would she go ahead and invite them anyway, as payback for all the shit he'd ever put through, just to watch him wriggle and squirm?

It was a moot point either way. He wasn't ready to tell Eowyn yet. Things with Solwen were going really well, but they were still only three dates in—not enough for him to feel comfortable doing the big reveal.

He would text Solwen later, let her know what Eowyn was planning. She might change her mind, decide to come down with the flu at the last minute.

Just a pity it was his party, so he couldn't do the same thing…

Someone knocked at the door.

"Come in," Eomer called out.

The door swung in to reveal an irritated Colwenna. She was holding a shirt. A familiar-looking, pale grey shirt. The shirt he'd been wearing last night.

She'd found it, then. Crap.

"Colwenna, hi, how are you?" he said, smiling as he reached for another document to sign.

Face scrunching, she came forward to hold the shirt up. "What on earth is this?" she said.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think it's a shirt."

She lowered the shirt to give him a soul-killing glare; he was glad his metal ruler was still in his drawer, or she would probably have picked it up to beat him with it. "Don't get mouthy with me," she said. "I know fine well it's a shirt. I meant _this_." She laid the shirt on the desk, pointing at a ragged cluster of threads which had once held a button in place. "And this, and this, and this," she said, moving her finger down through a series of similar holes.

He cleared his throat, trying to decide what the hell to tell her. How _did_ one confess to the head of one's household staff that a young lady had ripped one's shirt clean off in her rather indecorous rush to have sex? "Yeah, I, um, I caught it on something." That 'something' being Solwen's hands.

Colwenna snorted. "While running at full speed, I presume?"

"I, uh, I was moving pretty quickly, yes."

"Really?" Her voice was dripping with scorn.

"Yes."

"And I suppose whatever you _caught_ it on also did this?" She thrust the collar of the shirt at him to show him a deep, red lipstick print with two neat rows of teeth marks in the middle.

That must have been from later, after he'd put shirt back on. When they'd done the kinky thing on the couch. Or maybe when they'd done the equally kinky thing on the terrace. It was all a blur now; he wasn't quite sure. The tips of his ears started to burn. "I think, for both our sakes, I maybe shouldn't answer that unless I have a lawyer present."

She shook the shirt at him. "You keep damaging your clothes like this, you won't be the only one who needs a lawyer, because I'll bloody murder the pair of you!"

"If it's a problem, just throw it away. Solwen offered to buy me another."

"Right, yes, because that's absolutely the best solution," she tartly said. "Just throw stuff away, instead of not destroying it in the first place."

"It's hardly destroyed. It's just a few buttons."

She threw the shirt on the desk. "Well, if it's just a few buttons, perhaps His Blessed Majesty will sew them back on for me?"

"If it'll stop you complaining, then yes, I will." He knew how to take a motorcycle gearbox apart and put it back together. How hard could sewing a button be?

"Except, nobody will be able to sew anything on until we know where the damn buttons are." She showed him the sweetest of smiles. "Perhaps His Majesty could enlighten me as to where I should look?"

He swallowed. She was going to eviscerate him. "They, um, I think they _might_ be somewhere in here."

"Why on earth were the two of you in here?" Her outrage faded, replaced with horror. "Oh, surely not? Not in your _office_ , of all places."

"Colwenna…"

She jerked away from the desk as if she'd been burned, eyeing the surface with suspicion. "Please tell me you didn't," she whispered.

"See, here's the thing—"

"This desk is an antique," she said through gritted teeth. "A priceless national treasure. The only reason they let you use it instead of keeping it in a museum is that you're the King. Which means you're supposed to be responsible with it!"

"I _was_ responsible."

"How?"

"I locked the door and put the security system on!"

"And that's why your arm's back in a sling this morning, isn't it?" she said, pointing at the swaddled limb. "You didn't sleep on it the wrong way at all. You hurt it again, doing"—her face scrunched—"I don't even want to think about it."

"Colwenna…"

"You know what?" she said, holding up her hands palm out. "I don't want to know. You're the King of Rohan. You do whatever you want, wherever you want, with whomever you want. I'm just one of the servants. Your private life is _absolutely_ none of my business."

Bema, she was really laying it on with a trowel now. "Colwenna, you know fine well you're not a servant." He hated the word; nobody in the Palace was. "You're family. Just as much as Eowyn is."

She sniffed, only partly placated. "I'm quite sure you wouldn't expect your sister to fix your buttons for you."

"Of course I wouldn't." Mostly because Eowyn wouldn't know one end of a needle from the other. The last time their grandmother had tried to teach Eowyn to stitch, she'd embroidered the f-word on a cushion cover. "And I don't expect you to fix them, either. If it's a problem, just throw the shirt in the bin. Please," he pleaded.

She shook the shirt at him again. "This is a Heosen shirt. It cost over _three hundred_ pounds. That might be pocket change to you, but to regular people, it's rather a lot of money. So, you'll forgive me, but I'm going to do absolutely no such thing." She folded it up to drape it over her arm. "It'll be fixed. Don't you worry." With a 'fuck you' smile, she turned to leave.

Eomer had no idea what that statement meant. Was it a promise, or a threat? Maybe both. With Colwenna, both was a good bet.

"Colwenna," he called out as the door was swinging shut.

Sighing, she stuck her head back in. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"I, um, I just wanted to check, did you get the flowers arranged okay?"

"All taken care of. They should be delivered in the next couple of hours."

He smiled. "What would I ever do without you?"

She rolled her eyes and pulled the door shut.

Aragorn rummaged through the pile until he found _The Edoras Times_. He scanned the top of the page, didn't see anything useful there, turned it over, found what he was looking for towards the bottom. He skimmed the columns, picking out the main points. Grinning, he punched a fist in the air.

Arwen's knife paused halfway into the lemon curd. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"Not at all, no. Quite the opposite, in fact." He turned the paper to show it to her, putting his finger on the column heading. "Remember that petition Eomer's cousin lodged a few weeks ago? To have herself declared as Theoden's legal heir in Eomer's place?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "It's been thrown out. They held the vote in the Hall last night, the Lords rejected it, eighty-six votes to thirty-four." With two abstentions, he noticed. How someone couldn't have an opinion on something as important as that, Aragorn would never know.

"I assume that means the matter's done?"

"It does. Without the Hall's backing, there's no chance of it going anywhere now. In theory, she could take it to the House of Commons instead, but I doubt they'd give her the time of day."

"I'm sure Eomer will be extremely relieved." She spread a layer of curd on her toast, took a quick bite. "You should call, congratulate him, see how he is." Her glare was mildly reproving. "You said you were going to call him last week, and you didn't."

"I know." Sighing, he folded the paper up and threw it back on the pile. He would read the rest of the article later. And the other one near the top of the page, about the calls to reform the Hall of Lords as well. Reforms could be a tricky beast—one had to be sure they didn't become a revolution while one wasn't looking. "My schedule's been absolutely jammed. And you know how Denethor is. He's never been the most pro-Rohan of people"—that earned him a delicate snort—"doesn't consider Eomer my equal, so doesn't like the fact we're friends." He grabbed a pot to top up his coffee. "Every time I ask him to arrange a personal phone call to Edoras for me, he always finds something more pressing for me to do instead."

"I'm sorry, remind me again, which one of you is the King, and which one of you is the Steward?"

"It's not as simple as that." Never had been, not since the first day of his reign.

"Except it is," she said, giving him the sternest of glares—the one she used to herd the girls into line. "And if Denethor won't accept it, perhaps you should ask him to retire, give the job to someone who will."

It was tempting. But not something he was willing to do quite yet. Not until he'd sounded Boromir out a bit more. They'd talked about Boromir's eventual succession to the role of Steward a couple of times, but only in the most general terms. They'd never addressed the specifics, including how much of his father's man Boromir intended to be. If the answer was anything other than 'not at all' there was no point in trying to force Denethor out until he was ready to go, because he would just continue to run things from behind the scenes. How much easier the whole thing would be if Faramir was Denethor's heir instead. Faramir, he could _absolutely_ trust to be his own man. "I'll deal with it, I promise. Just not quite yet." Smiling softly, he laid his hand on hers to squeeze it. "Maybe once the baby is born."

They both knew what he really meant. Not so much 'maybe once the baby is born' as 'maybe once I have a son'. Until he had a legitimate heir, he couldn't afford to alienate anyone on the Royal Council, much less the mighty Lord Steward. Once they had a son, his position, _and_ hers, would be far more secure.

"You should call him right now," Arwen suggested.

"Sorry?"

"You're free for the next half hour," she said. "You should call him right now. Be spontaneous for once."

"But this is our private morning time. I can't use it for work."

"Except it's not work, is it?" She prepped another piece of curd-laden toast—he didn't know how she could even eat it. But at least it wasn't anchovies this time. "You'll just be catching up with a friend."

"A friend who also happens to be the King of an allied nation."

She made a shushing sound at him. "Don't think about that. He's just Eomer today."

He had to admit, it was a lovely idea. Something completely unplanned and unscheduled. Something Denethor would _hate_. Eomer might not be at home, or he might be too busy to talk, but he wouldn't know until he tried. And he didn't want to talk to Eomer just to find out how he was faring after his crash. He wanted to tackle that other tricky issue as well.

He dropped his napkin on his plate, pushed out of his chair, paused to give Arwen a quick kiss on the head and went to find a phone with Eomer's number in it.

"You're welcome," she called out as he left.

Eomer cursed as his phone started to ring. Ten minutes. That was how much longer he needed, to get all these bloody documents signed.

Whoever it was, it wasn't a scheduled call. And whatever they were calling about, it better be something good.

To his annoyance, he couldn't even see who it was; the incoming line showed as UNKNOWN. Muttering, he picked up the call. "Hello?" he said. He never announced himself by his title or name to an unlabelled call, in case it was an accidental wrong number.

"Your Majesty, good morning," a familiar voice at the other end said.

Eomer couldn't help but grin. Instantly, his sour mood evaporated. "Your Majesty, good morning, how are you?"

"I'm very well. And you?"

"I _was_ having a rather annoying start to my day, but I feel much better now."

"Anything in particular annoying you today? Or just the general grind of being a King?"

"Just the general grind. You know how it is."

"Except, there's nothing general about what happened in the Hall of Lords last night."

"Oh, so you read about that, then?"

"I certainly did. And I can't say anything officially, but off the record, we're both extremely relieved nothing is going to come of it."

"Equally off the record, we're both absolutely thrilled as well." He scribbled a signature on another piece of paper, added it to the pile, closed his box over and set it aside. He wasn't finished, but he would sign the rest later. "One less problem to worry about."

"And speaking of problems, how's the arm?" Aragorn asked.

"It's fine, healing up pretty well. I had the sling off for a while yesterday, but I, um, I tweaked it lifting something last night"—no need to mention that 'something' was Solwen—"so I had to put it back on today."

"And dare I ask, how the Firefoot is?"

"Not a write-off, you'll be pleased to know. My mechanic's fixing her up as we speak."

"Just so you know, you gave both of us a terrible fright."

Eomer snorted. "Gave myself a terrible fright as well. Not an experience I'm in any hurry to repeat, trust me."

"I can't imagine Eowyn took it well."

"She didn't take it well, no." Even the memory made him wince. "I won't give you the gory details, but there was a lot of shouting involved."

"Whatever she did or said, I'm sure it's just because she was worried about you. We _all_ were. And we're all glad you're unharmed. I meant to phone to tell you last week, but things just got away from me again."

"Quite alright. I know how busy you are. And I got your card. Very thoughtful."

"Am I allowed to ask how the Dunedain suit fared?"

Eomer squirmed. This was the one question he'd hoped Aragorn wouldn't ask. "I'm afraid it's trashed. I had someone look at it to see if it could be fixed, but they told me the leather's been ruined beyond all hope of repair. I'm sorry," he said lamely. "I know it was very expensive."

"I'm just glad you had it on. Even a lowside crash can be nasty when you're not in the right gear."

"I think it's definitely the reason my injuries were as minor as they were. So, thank you. I hate that I had to bin it, but I'm extremely thankful I had it."

Aragorn's tone was dry. "If I buy you another, should I order two at the same time? Just to be ready?"

"Actually, there's no need. I, um, I've actually decided to give up racing."

"I heard."

But of course he had. Eomer wondered what else he'd heard. He might already know how he'd actually strained his shoulder. "It, um, it seemed like the right thing to do."

Silence for a few seconds, then Aragorn quietly cleared his throat. "And, um, speaking of something being the right thing to do…"

"Yes?"

"You remember the last time I called, the morning of your birthday, I asked you how you felt about the guest list for the anniversary banquet?"

"Yes?"

Aragorn sighed. "I don't think I made myself entirely clear at the time. About why I was asking that question, I mean."

Strange. It had all seemed clear enough to him. "I assumed you meant the fact we're sending an invite to Lasgalen, and you know Legolas and I don't really like each other."

Silence again. "Not that, no."

"Then what?"

"You _really_ don't know?"

Eomer's stomach churned. "Okay, you're starting to freak me out a bit here. The hell are you talking about?" He cursed as someone rapped on the office door. Probably Guthlaf or Mordoc, coming to tell him the car was ready. Dammit. Why did stuff like this always come up at the worst possible time?

"Be right there," Eomer called out. Into the phone, he said, "I have to go. I have an engagement I absolutely can't be late for. Can we talk about this later?"

"Eomer, whoever's organizing the banquet guest list on your side, go talk to them as soon as you can," Aragorn urged. " _Please_. Ask them to show you the guest list. And once you've seen it, I want you to call me. Do _not_ speak to anyone else about it before you speak to me. You understand?"

"Okay, now you're _definitely_ freaking me out."

"It's nothing to worry about. Just do as I say, I give you my word, everything will be fine."

"I will, I promise. But I have to run now. Thanks for calling. Give my best wishes to Arwen, we'll talk again soon."

"We certainly will. Take care for now. My love to Eowyn as well."

Aragorn hung up.

Frowning, confused, Eomer put his handset back in the cradle. He grabbed his pen to scribble 'banquet guest list' on a note to remind himself to look into the matter later.

It was all very strange. Legolas aside, how worrying could a guest list be?

Arwen looked up as he returned, her smile falling into a frown. "What's wrong?" she said. "Did something bad come up on the call?"

"You could say that, yes."

"What?"

Aragorn flopped into his seat, reached for his cup of coffee, wishing it was something stronger. "You remember when I called Eomer on his birthday, and I asked him how he felt about the guest list for the banquet?"

She nodded. "Because you knew the Amroths had added Lothiriel, yes."

"And his answer made me think he didn't even know she'd been added? But I didn't have time to stay on the call, so I couldn't ask him about it?"

"But Denethor told you a few days later that Imrahil had received a response from Edoras, indicating they had no concerns about the guest list."

"So we assumed Eomer had seen it."

Another nod. "But you were going to follow up with him, just to be sure."

"I just followed up with him."

"And?"

"And, he doesn't know." Aragorn, rubbed his eyes, wishing he could wind back the clock, have the phone call with Eomer all over again. "He doesn't know Lothiriel is on the guest list."

She blinked in alarm, and rightly so—she knew as well as he did how many problems this could potentially cause. If it didn't get handled just right, it could trigger an international incident of epic proportions. "How is that even possible?" she said.

"It's possible because somebody lied. Whether it was malice, or to cover something up, I'm not quite sure."

"They can't uninvite her. Not now. Not without causing grievous offence to the Amroths."

"They can if it was Imrahil who lied. If Edoras told him not to bring Lothiriel, and he decided to ignore them."

She reached out to lay her hand over his. "Not Imrahil," she said, shaking her head. "I know the two of you don't always see eye to eye on Council issues, but he values his honour too much. He knows as well as anyone that if he was caught telling that kind of lie, the disgrace would ruin him. And Lothiriel as well, once the whole story came out. He would _never_ be that stupid."

She was right. Which meant only one thing. "It's someone in Edoras. Someone there hasn't told Eomer what's going on."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him to speak to whoever is organizing things at his side. To ask them to show him the guest list."

She frowned. "You didn't just tell him the truth?"

He shook his head. "The timing was bad, he was on his way out to an engagement. I told him to dig up the list, and to call me once he'd seen it."

"You'll have to persuade Denethor not to block or divert his call."

And there was another conversation he didn't want to have. What he wouldn't give to have a Lord Steward who did whatever Aragorn told him, as soon as he told him to do it.

One day. Not yet.

And in the meantime, perhaps Faramir would be able to help…


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before in the Hamelmark house - Solwen and Erland swap notes.
> 
> Warning for crude language.

The downstairs phone started to ring.

To her relief, the ringing cut off after four turns. That made six calls in the last twenty minutes, on top of the fourteen calls the evening before. No guesses on why; everyone wanted to speak to her dad. Whether to congratulate him, or threaten to have him whipped through the streets for insulting the whole Landed class still remained to be seen. Solwen would personally take an either-way bet.

The clock read eight forty-five. She'd dozed enough; it was time to get up. She sat up, wincing as various body parts reminded her of her (sex) life choices. She threw back the covers, inspecting her knees, relieved to see they were only a little bit raw. She went to her mirror, turning her back to pull up her shirt—her shoulder blades were tender as well. But nothing that wouldn't be fine in a day, and more importantly, nothing anyone else would see.

Which of Eomer's parts would be sore? His shoulder for sure—he'd tweaked it lifting her onto the desk. She remembered biting his shirt—had she bitten anything else? He probably had some light scratches on his back. And maybe a few bruises on his arse as well. She should ask him to check, send her some photos of what he discovered.

She reached for her phone to check for texts. One from Eomer, and to her relief, one from Elisend as well. Both texts made her heart skip, but for entirely different reasons. She checked the message from Eomer first, sent this morning just after seven. _Hope you slept well. Last night was amazing. Can't wait to see you again._ Short, sweet and to the point. Quickly, paying only vague attention to Algrin's 'rules', she texted back, _Slept great, you wore me out. How are the knees? Mine need some cream. Can't wait to see you again, too._ She paused, then added, _XXX_. It might be inappropriate to send a King kisses, but appropriate wasn't really her jam.

That message done, she switched to Ellie's. Hers was a more alarming response. _Sorry I didn't answer last night. Was at mum and dad's. Pretty tense. Lots of crying and shouting. Working today. Going to Romengar tonight for Solstice. Meet next week for drinks?_ Solwen let out a sigh of relief. It sounded bad, but at least Ellie was talking to her. She hadn't watched her dad's rebuttal and decided to never have anything to do with any Hamelmark ever again. _Glad you're okay. How about Tuesday after work?_ she replied. She and Eomer had arranged another late drinks date for Monday. _Meet at Jorry's again? Drinks are on me._

She grabbed her robe, slipped her phone into the pocket, shoved her feet into her shoes and made her way downstairs. An envelope was on the mat, underneath the letterbox slot. She picked it up to check the address. To her surprise, it had been hand-delivered, with only 'The Earl of Hamelmark' scrawled on the front. She stuck it in her pocket as well.

In the kitchen, Nediriel was bustling around, tidying up, putting the contents of the dishwasher away. "Morning," Solwen said as she strolled in, heading straight for what her nose told her was a freshly-brewed pot of coffee.

"Good morning," Nediriel said with a welcoming smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, yes, thank you. Like the proverbial log. Must have been really tired."

"I can't for the life of me imagine why."

Blushing, Solwen grabbed the pot and a mug, pouring the former into the latter. "Any sign of Erland yet?" She hadn't received a follow-up text, which in Standard Erland Operating Mode, meant the previous message still applied.

Nediriel shook her head. "Nothing yet. But he told us he might be out all night, and the police haven't paid us a visit, so I assume he's okay."

Police visits, yes. Never a welcome thing in this house. "I hope he's at least called his work to tell them he's not coming in."

"Assuming he hasn't gone straight to work from wherever he is."

"He'd want to come home to change." Solwen paused to sip some coffee. "And he would tell us if that was his plan. He's not the best communicator in the world, but he knows better than to stay completely silent."

"True."

"I guess there hasn't been any sign of life from His Lordship either?" Solwen asked, pointing her thumb at the ceiling.

Nediriel grinned. "Your father's alive, but he's not quite ready to face the world yet. I'm sure he'll emerge at some point. Once he's had plenty of time to regret his life choices."

"He's never regretted his life choices before."

"We live in hope."

"We'll just need to have plenty of coffee ready." And plenty of painkillers as well…

They both froze as the front door slammed. Something was dropped in the hall—a bag, or maybe a heavy coat—quiet footsteps approached, then Erland appeared at the kitchen door. He looked as if he'd been dragged along a road by his feet. Or ridden hard and put away wet. Or maybe both, one after the other.

"Well, well, well," a grinning Solwen drawled. "Would you look at what the stallion dragged in?"

"Funny." He shucked out of his suit jacket, hung it on a hook near the door, went straight to the coffee pot to grab it.

"Should be nice and hot," Nediriel said, handing him a freshly-washed mug. "Just made it ten minutes ago." She checked the time. "I'm meeting a friend in town at ten, so I'm going to go change." She smiled. "I'll leave you two to catch up."

Carefully, silently, Erland filled his mug.

"So," Solwen prompted.

Yawning, rubbing an eye, Erland leaned against the other counter. "So, what?"

"So, what the hell happened to you last night?"

"I met someone." He smiled as he blew on his coffee. "We decided to make a proper night of it."

She looked him up and down, taking in the tired eyes, the rumpled hair and the equally rumpled shirt. 'Proper' wasn't the word she would use. "Must have been a hell of a night."

"It was."

"Am I allowed to know who the poor bastard was?"

His grin was unbearably smug; it made him look like his father's son. "Guess."

Bema. As if they didn't have enough smartarses in the house already. "Was he someone I know?"

"Uh huh."

"Was he Landed?"

He snorted. "Extremely."

Extremely, hmm. What gay, 'extremely' Landed guys did she know? None immediately came to mind. Other than Erland, of course. And also— "Oh, my Gods," she blurted in shock. "Did you just spend the night with _Elfhelm_?"

Grin triumphant, he nodded.

"But you only met him yesterday."

He shrugged. "I've never been the most patient of men."

A family trait, apparently, especially when sex was involved. Only Eomer's pleas for patience had kept her from ravaging him on their first date. "Okay, but he left with his dad. And he never came back to the Hall for the vote, so I didn't have the chance to give him your number. How the hell did you even hook up?"

"He came to my office."

She nodded, remembering the convo they'd had. "Right, yes, of course. He asked you where you worked."

"He turned up in our office reception just after four, told the girl at the desk he was a client of mine and he wanted to see me."

"I hope you didn't fuck him in your office," she said. Which, given what she'd done with Eomer last night, was just a _tiny_ bit like the pot telling the kettle not to be black.

"Bema, no," he said with a pained face. "You know how uptight the company is about personal guests. My boss would rake me over the coals if he thought it was anything other than a work visit."

"So, what did you do?"

"We went for drinks. Talked. Then, we went for dinner. Talked some more. Then, we went to a club." Probably Bennett's—it was where all the upmarket guys in Edoras went. "Then he, uh, then he invited me back to his place."

"And you just went?"

"Of course I went," he said, as if she'd just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. "Why the fuck wouldn't I? He's hot as fuck. And he's the _Earl of Elgoll's_ son. Not like he was going to be a serial killer."

"But on a first date? Really, Erland?"

"You better watch your step when you get off that high horse of yours. You'll break a leg when you hit the ground."

"I didn't have sex with Eomer on our first date."

His brows shot up. "Oh, so it's just _Eomer_ now, is it?" he asked, mocking. "Not His Majesty? Or The King?"

Wincing, she waved for him to keep his voice down. "That's his name. And I'm dating him, so, yes, it is."

"Does he think you're dating?"

"As a matter of fact, he does. We talked about it last night. We're now _officially_ seeing each other."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you." She couldn't deny—it felt amazing to be able to say it. They were dating. A couple. Courting. A _thing_.

"So, um, can I ask, where does the Countess of Camelor come in?" he said.

"You can, and my answer is, she doesn't." She gulped her coffee, wincing as it burned her mouth. "They had a thing, after she separated from her husband, but it was all over before we met."

"So, you're the only pot of ink His Majesty's dipping his royal pen in?"

"Don't be crude."

"That's not being crude. I'm just concerned. We both know he's rather fond of the ladies. If I was being crude, I would remind you of the question I asked you a few weeks ago that you still haven't answered."

"What question was that?"

"What does royal cock taste like?"

She punched him so hard he spilled coffee down the front of his shirt. "It tastes like mind your own fucking business."

"I don't think I've ever tried that flavour of cock before."

"It's on the top shelf, between kiss my ass and shut your whore mouth."

"But you did do _something_ , right?" he said, grinning. "Because by my counting, last night was your third date, and there's no _way_ you made it to the end of a third date without at least some second base action."

"Right, because you and Elfhelm spent the whole night holding hands."

He snorted into his mug. "I held something, but it certainly wasn't his hand."

"Do tell."

"Remember you mentioned he apparently has a reputation for being a bit of a gossip?"

"Uh huh?"

He leaned forward to whisper, "Let's just say, it's not the only way he's good with his mouth."

She feigned disgust. "You _dirty_ slut."

"I let him blow me. How does that make me a dirty slut?"

"It was your first date!"

"As if you haven't done worse. Like that time in Anfalas, when we went to visit Nediriel's family, and you hooked up with that guy at the—"

"Okay, stop," she ordered, raising a hand. "I take back what I said. You're not a slut. Dirty or otherwise."

"Thank you."

"Did you, um, you know…?" she made a gesture with her hand.

"Is that you trying to ask me if I had sex with him?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "Like you said, it was just a first date." He sipped some coffee. "I'll leave that to next time."

"Are you going to see him again?"

"Definitely. Not sure when. Maybe tonight. Or Sunday. Or early next week."

She did a happy dance inside. No guarantees anything long term would come of it, but finally, her brother was seeing a man she liked. "I'm seeing Eomer again on Monday," she quietly volunteered.

His lips quirked.

"What?"

"I was going to ask you a question, then it occurred to me, maybe I shouldn't."

"Now you have to ask it."

The quirk grew into another grin. "Is he going to rail you over his office desk again?"

"How the _fuck_ did you know about that?" she asked, panic instantly surging. Had there been _cameras_ in Eomer's office? Had someone recorded what they'd done? Did other people know as well?

"Um, because the guy who just railed you and the guy who just blew me are best friends? Best friends who apparently text each other at _seven o'clock in the fucking morning_ to swap gossip from the night before?"

No camera footage, then. But she didn't know who she wanted to throttle first—Eomer, for spilling the beans or Elfhelm for passing them on. "Am I the only person in this whole clusterfuck of a situation who knows how to keep her mouth shut?"

"Not according to those texts, you don't."

She would kill Elfhelm first. She would only do ten to twelve for homicide; regicide was a hanging offence.

His mug froze halfway to his mouth. "Okay, hang on a minute, was that the _Celebrant_ Desk?" he said. "The one that's like, some priceless antique, or something? Carved out of a single piece of wood, gift from the people of Gondor, used by, like, ten Kings of Rohan, blah blah, all that stuff?"

"I'm saying nothing."

"Just a pity you can't tell dad. Pretty sure he would shit his pants laughing."

Or, tell her off for being so disrespectful to the Crown. T _hen_ shit his pants laughing. "You _do_ realize, if he's telling Elfhelm things about me, Elfhelm's probably telling him things about you," she said.

Erland shrugged. "Elfhelm can tell him whatever he wants. The fuck do I care?"

There was that, yes. "You'll need to be careful. Don't do something so scandalous you can't look him in the eye when you meet him at the Midsummer party."

"Bema, the party, I forgot about that." He reached for the pot to top up his coffee. "Least I'll have someone to talk to now. And to answer your question, not only will I look him right in the eye, I'll give him a slutty wink while I'm doing it."

She raised a warning finger at him. "I like this guy. Do _not_ blow this for me."

"Said no man, ever."

She punched him on the arm. "Be serious, please."

"You really like him that much?"

"I do, yes," she whispered, even though there was nobody else around to hear. "And not because of who he is. To be honest, that's an utter pain in the arse, means we need four days of planning just to meet up for drinks."

"And it's not just because the sex is good?"

"Oh, come on," she scoffed. "Would I like a guy this much just because the sex is good?"

He said nothing, but raised a brow.

Dammit. He knew her too well. "Okay, I'm maybe willing to admit, that sometimes, I think with my little head instead of my big one. But that's not the case here. I _really_ like him. I like being with him, I like talking to him, I like how he makes me feel, that he makes me laugh, that he laughs at my jokes—"

"That's definitely a good point, because your jokes are the literal worst."

Glaring, she continued, "—that he doesn't judge me for liking bikes more than handbags and shoes. So don't do something stupid at the party and ruin it for me, please."

"Don't ruin what for you?" a bored-sounding Astalor said from the door, making both of them jump.

"Solly's worried I'm going to mess up her sex life," Erland explained.

Astalor sighed. "Sex talk. Great." He went to the couch, grabbed the remote to switch on the TV, changed it to a trashy music channel.

"What's the matter?" Erland asked. "You don't like sex?"

"I like it just fine." Astalor moved to the fridge, stuck his head in, emerged with a can of juice. "I just don't want to listen to you two talk about it."

"What do you mean, _us_ two?" Solwen demanded.

"Okay, well, he fucks guys"—Astalor pointed to Erland—"and I have no problem with that, you do you, but other men aren't really my thing. And you're having sex with Brendal," he continued, pointing at her. He wrinkled his nose. "That's just _wrong_."

"Why?" Erland asked, beating her to it.

"Because he's our _cousin_ ," Astalor said, as if a cousin was a serial killer.

"Third cousin once removed," Solwen corrected. "We're barely even related at all."

Nodding, Erland added, "Nine degrees of separation. Point-three-nine percent gene sharing." He shrugged as Solwen raised a bemused brow at him. "I'm a numbers guy. I ran the math."

"It's still wrong," Astalor claimed. "And it's not just the cousin thing." His nose wrinkled again. "He's so _old_."

Solwen said, "He's forty-two. Not exactly at death's door." Although, to a mere twenty-two-year-old, forty was probably as good as dead.

"Yeah, but he's still old enough to be my father." Astalor mocked a shudder. "Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it."

Solwen's tone was dry. "Astalor, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but dad's fifty-four and your mum's forty-eight, and I'm pretty sure they still have sex as well."

Astalor held up a hand. "Stop talking, please. I don't want to know." Scowling, he grabbed his juice and went back to watching TV.

"I know for a fact they still have sex," Erland whispered. "The soundproofing between _rooms_ here is great, but between _floors_?" He shook his head. "Not so much."

She snickered. "So, Astalor's the only person in the house not getting any right now?"

"Probably why he's so crabby all the time."

"You think he'd be nicer if we got him laid?"

"Always works for me. _And_ for you. Don't see why not."

She remembered the folder she'd seen on Asta's computer. "She'd have to be elvish. And be, um, how shall I say, quite well-equipped?"

Erland made a face. "Do I even want to know why you're telling me that?"

"Probably better if you don't."

"Thank you."

And speaking of her brother being nicer. "Astalor," she called out.

"What?"

"I expect you to remember your manners tomorrow. Don't be an arsehole to Brendal just because you can't cope with the fact we're dating."

Astalor waved his hand. "Whatever, man."

To Erland, she whispered, "Remind me again, how long does the larval stage last?"

"Delightful, isn't he?"

"I can hear everything you're saying, you know," Astalor calmly announced. "And both of you can go fuck yourselves. When I'm an asshole to someone, it's because I think they're being an asshole to me. You do the math."

Sighing, Erland refilled his coffee.

"Sorry, who's doing math?" a new voice—their dad's—added. To Solwen's surprise, he was already showered and dressed. He was only wearing comfortable jeans and a tee, but it was better than the pajamas, robe and rumpled hair she'd expected.

And what the fuck was it with people in this family and sneaking around? Why could nobody make so much noise when they walked down the hall that people heard them coming from three clicks away?

Erland bowed, making an obsequious downward twirling motion with his hand. "His Lordship has decided to bless us with his glorious presence."

"The only glorious thing about me right now is the pain in my head," their dad said, shuffling past them to grab the pot. He opened it, looked inside, heaved a pissed-off sigh. "Okay, which one of you inconsiderate whelps just drank all my coffee?"

"I did, sorry," said Erland, wincing.

Her dad looked his eldest son up and down. "I would threaten to disinherit you for being so impolite, but from the looks it, you need it even more than I do." His lips quirked. "Good night?"

"You, um, you could say that, yes."

"I won't ask for the sordid details."

"Please don't," Solwen pleaded. And not just because they didn't need a literal blow-by-blow account. "You'll offend Astalor's sensibilities again."

"Sorry?"

"Astalor doesn't like it when we talk about sex," Solwen whispered. "He says it's disgusting." Or words to that effect.

Their dad snorted. "Only if you do it right."

"Okay, can we just change the subject please?" Astalor complained from the couch. "Cus you're all kind of freaking me out."

"Why?" their dad said.

"You shouldn't talk about sex this much with your kids. It's inappropriate."

"I'm the Earl of Hamelmark, kiddo. Inappropriate's my middle name."

"Don't remind me," Astalor muttered. He stuck his headphones in and brought out his phone.

Her dad gave her a 'what the fuck was that about' frown. Solwen's answer was a 'how the fuck should I know' shrug. Whatever it was Astalor had a bug up his ass about, he wasn't sharing with anyone right now.

"Let me make some more coffee," Erland offered, going to grab the water jug from the rack. He filled the tank, checked the beans, set the brew function running.

Yawning, their dad went to the side table to pull the newspaper out of the pile. "Well, well, well," he said, a grin spreading on his face. "Would you look at who made the front page of _The Edoras Times_ today?" Grin widening, he turned to show them the paper, tapping an article at the top of the page.

Solwen stepped forward to peer at the title. _Earl Calls For Hall Reforms_ , it read. Bema. He was going to be unbearably pleased with himself for at least a week. And, given how many messages he had waiting for him, it probably wouldn't be the last news article with his name on it. "They called last night," she said. " _The Times_ , I mean. I saw the name on the display."

He flipped the paper over. "Look at that, they covered the dismissal of the petition as well." He smirked. "But only on the bottom half."

Make that _two_ weeks; best to nip the incipient gloating in the bud. "Just so you know, you're legally allowed to feel insufferably superior to everyone for forty-eight hours. But that's it. Back to normal by Sunday morning."

He shrugged, opening the paper to skim the second half of the article inside. "I was expecting twenty-four at most, so that's fine." He closed the paper, set it aside, reached for the pile of mail.

Which reminded her. She pulled the envelope out of her pocket. "Almost forgot. This was on the mat when I came down. Hand delivered, I think."

Her dad took the envelope from her, frowning as he scanned the front. He tore the envelope open, pulled out and unfolded the piece of paper inside. A fresh grin appeared on his face.

"What is it?" Erland said.

"I think I just got my first ever piece of hate mail," their dad proudly revealed. He turned the paper to show it to them. TRAITOR, someone had neatly scribbled on it, all uppercase, in thick, bright red pen.

"Oh, for the love of Bema," Solwen murmured. As she reached out to take it from him, Erland grabbed her wrist.

"Don't touch it," he said. "Not the inside sheet. Don't get your fingerprints on it."

"It's nothing to worry about," their dad said. "Just some coward who doesn't like what I said in my speech."

"Dad, that is absolutely _not_ nothing to worry about," Erland said. "Whoever wrote it, they hand delivered it to the house. They know where we live. You need to show it to the police, or at the very least, the Hall Commandant."

"Why the hell would the Commandant care?"

"Because you're a sitting member of the Hall of Lords, and someone is _threatening_ you," Erland said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Last time I looked, that's a serious offence."

Solwen nodded, supporting. "Erland's right. You can't just dismiss this. You need to show it to someone."

Their dad scanned the note again, put it back in the envelope, folded the envelope in half and stuck it in his back pocket. "I'll call the Commandant later, see what he has to say. He's probably dealt with stuff like this before."

"Just don't dismiss it," Erland warned. "For all our sakes, not just your own. It was only a letter, but it could just as easily have been a lit rag in the middle of the night."

"I guess whoever it was really didn't like my speech," their dad said.

"Can't for the life of me imagine why," said Solwen. "Not like you said anything _remotely_ controversial at all."

Their dad glanced at Astalor, who was focusing on his phone. "Let's keep this between the three of us for now. No need to worry your brother. Or Nediriel. Okay?"

Another secret; just what she needed. "As long as you promise you'll actually do something about it."

"I give you my word."

"I assume you're not going into the Hall today?" She turned to Erland. "And I assume you're not going to work?"

Erland shook his head. "I texted my boss an hour ago, told him I needed a personal day."

A personal day. That was a diplomatic way to put it. Not a 'I need to recover from having my brains repeatedly sucked out through my dick' day.

"They won't miss me," Erland added. "It's Solstice weekend. Place'll be empty. Everyone who can will have taken the day off already."

Their dad nodded. "Same in the Hall. It's just committee sessions today, and I'm not on any right now, so nobody needs me."

"Convenient."

He grinned. "There was _some_ method to my drinking madness."

She wondered if Lord Amerwen and Lady Briotha would feel the same way…

The front doorbell rang. She put her mug down, but her dad held her back. "Let me get it. If it's a pipe bomb, or a guy with a sawn-off shotgun, I should be the one to answer, not you." He disappeared into the hall.

Her phone buzzed against her hip. She pulled it out, pleased to see it was another message from Ellie. _Tuesday works great. Meet at seven? You're DEFINITELY buying._ Solwen wondered what that last sentence meant. Nothing bad, she hoped. Quickly, she texted back, _Seven works for me. Enjoy your weekend as much as you can. Stay sane. Don't kill Theonara. See you next week XXX._

"I'm going to assume from the fact you don't have a lovey-dovey smile on your face that you weren't just texting you-know-who," Erland murmured.

She shook her head. "Just Ellie. Arranging to meet her for drinks on Tuesday."

"She's still talking to you, then?"

"So far, yes."

"Can't say I envy what she's having to deal with. We thought _our_ dad was bad?" The coffee pot beeped, letting them know the new brew was done. "Walk in the park compared to what hers must be like."

"Don't ever let dad hear you say that."

"Don't ever let me hear you say what?" their dad said as he returned. Her snarky response about eavesdropping and sneaking around died on her lips as she saw what he was holding—a beautiful bunch of flowers. What kind of flowers, she wasn't quite sure—what she knew about botany she could write on the back of a stamp—but their size and colour was amazing. Each head was about ten centimetres across, and the broad, chunky petals were a deep, dusky shade that shifted from pinkish-grey to greyish-pink depending on how the light caught them. Smiling, her dad held them out. "These are for you," he said. "Just got delivered. There's a card at the side."

She took the flowers, leaning in to catch the scent. Something light and sweet and, well, _floral_ , was the only way she could describe it. She set the vase on the counter, plucked the envelope from the grip and tore it open. There was no text of any kind, just a large, angular, confident 'E'. He must have signed the card himself. Probably with the pen she'd examined, on the desk he'd fucked her over.

"Would you look at that sappy grin?" said Erland, letting out a disgusted sigh.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" Her dad smiled, but there was a strange, wistful look in his eyes. "She's got it bad this time."

Blushing, schooling her face into a more neutral expression, she slipped the card in her pocket. "The pair of you can just fuck off all the way to fuck."

Erland poked her shoulder. "Don't be crude," he said, parroting her own advice back to her.

"You don't want me to be crude, don't tease me just because my boyfriend sent me flowers."

Dipping his head in acquiescence, Erland moved in to smell the bouquet. "Beautiful."

"Aren't they?" She checked underneath, relieved to see the stems were cut, and already sitting in some kind of vase. She wouldn't need to arrange or move them, then. Good. She always made a dog's breakfast of it.

"Your boyfriend has excellent taste," Erland said, one eye twitching in what some people might have called a wink.

Her dad added, "Bloody expensive taste as well. Bike mechanics must earn more than I thought."

His words made Solwen freeze in shock. Was her cover story about to unravel, because her actual boyfriend—the Eighteenth King of Rohan and Duke of the Mark—had sent her a bunch of flowers her fake boyfriend—a simple bike mechanic—would never in a year of paydays be able to buy? "Really?" she said as calmly as she could.

"These are shadow lilies," her dad said, coming to take a quick sniff of his own. "Not as expensive as Anfalasian roses, but they still cost a couple of pennies. They're supposed to symbolize new love. Your boyfriend must be as smitten as you are." He still had that weird, wistful look in his eyes—as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to tease her, or cry.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing." He sighed. "Just…" He shook his head, smiling again. "Don't mind me."

"You're not having one of those stupid 'my wee girl's all grown up' moments again, are you?" He had at least one a year, usually around the anniversary of her mum's death.

"Maybe."

"Dad, I'm twenty-eight. I'm allowed to have a boyfriend."

"I know you are. Wouldn't dream of even implying you're not. But I'm allowed to have a sentimental moment as well."

"As long as that's the only kind of moment you have," she warned.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, when Brendal turns up for dinner tomorrow, no telling him you own a gun and a shovel."

"Thought hadn't even crossed my mind," he said, in a way that made her think he'd been planning to use those exact words.

"I mean it, dad. He's a good, kind, decent man." Which she didn't have to be dating him to know. "He doesn't need or deserve to be threatened." Especially since he wasn't actually doing the thing her dad would be threatening him for doing.

"No threats, I give you my word."

"And none of your weird, psych-out bullshit, either," Erland added. "He's a motorbike mechanic. Don't go asking him if he thinks a pro-rich growth economy needs a trickle up push, or if he's in favour of a Zero Lower Bound monetary policy. Keep it honest."

"Okay, I have no idea what _any_ of that meant," Solwen said.

"Neither do I," her dad added. "And I have a Finance degree."

Erland's smile was slightly sassy. "Guess you're not the smartest member of the family after all, then, are you?"

"I don't believe I ever said I was." Her dad nudged her out of the way, making a beeline for the coffee. As he grabbed the pot, the doorbell rang again. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered, dropping the pot back on the plate. "Between the phone and the door, it's like Rohan bloody Square in here this morning." Sighing, he stomped back into the Hall.

"This time, it _will_ be the pipe bomb," Erland said.

Solwen shrugged. "You never know. It might be a congratulatory strippergram instead."

Erland snorted. "Sure Astalor would love that."

Only if it was an elvish woman with a rack like a well-stacked shelf…

Footsteps stomped, their dad reappeared, carrying a long, slender plastic container.

"The hell is that?" Solwen said, going to peer inside. To her surprise, it was a single, beautiful, spray of tiny, delicate blood red flowers in a tasteful crystal vase. "Holy shit," she murmured. "Is that an _orchid_?" Those, daffodils and roses being the limits of her flower recognition skills.

"It certainly is. _Hellishly_ expensive." Her dad gestured at her lilies. "Makes those look like something you buy at a petrol station."

"Who's it from?" Erland asked.

"You tell us." Grinning, their dad handed the container to him.

Erland blinked. "What?"

"It's for you."

Cautiously, as if he thought it would break, Erland took the box, extracting the card from the slot on the side. As he read the note, more than a smile spread across his face.

"Oh, my Gods," Solwen blurted. "You're _actually_ blushing. What the fuck does that note say?"

"It says none of your fucking business," Erland retorted.

"Kiddies," their dad warned. "Be nice, please."

"Is that from—" she broke off, biting her tongue; it wasn't her secret to share.

Erland nodded.

"From who?" their dad asked, looking between them and back.

Erland sighed, probably turning options in his head. To share, or not to share, that was the question? Tell dad now, or be confronted with the truth in a month when he inevitably put two random snippets together and figured it out?

"Just tell him," Solwen said. Things were already complicated enough without her brother keeping secrets as well. "There's no reason I can think of he shouldn't know."

"From Elfhelm," Erland admitted. And the look in his eyes as he said the name. Bema. He was falling hard. In lust, at least, if not in love. After a _single_ night—that must be another family trait. Fall quick, fall hard; would it also be fall forever?

"Elfhelm?" their dad repeated, shocked. "As in Elgoll? As in Tommen's son?"

Erland nodded. "We, um, we met up again last night, after the thing in the Hall. Went for drinks, then dinner." He shrugged. "We, uh, we hit it off."

"Obviously." Their dad nodded at the flower. "I should have realized that from the orchid."

"Why?" said Solwen.

"The Earl of Elgoll breeds orchids as a hobby. He's apparently got a special room for them in his house."

"You think this is one of them?" Solwen said, pointing at the delicate spray.

"Erella told me Tommen's more protective of his flowers than he sometimes is of his kids, has them all numbered and tagged, so I highly doubt it." He examined the box, looking for a label. "There you go, it's from a shop downtown." He let out a low whistle. "Hadden & Blest. Lad's got style." He checked the time. "And ten past nine. Rush delivery. Lad's got plenty of money as well."

Solwen said, "He's an Elgoll, dad. That's like saying grass is green. He probably lights his cigars with a rolled up fifty-pound note."

"He's not like that," Erland said, a tiny bit defensive. "He's nice with his money. He doesn't flash it around."

Their dad grinned as he went for his coffee. "If he's sending you expensive orchids, you must have made quite an impression."

"Like I said. We hit it off."

"It's moments like this that make me genuinely proud to be a father, you know." Their dad gestured from Erland's orchid to Solwen's shadow lilies. "At least two of my kids know how to put out well enough to earn really fancy flowers as thanks."

Solwen wouldn't count on Astalor making it three for three. Not with the bitchy mood he was in. They really needed to get to the bottom of that, find out what the hell he was always so tetchy about…

Footsteps echoed down the hall, lighter, shorter, someone in heels. Nediriel appeared, hair swept up in an elegant 'do, wearing a tasteful, flattering skirt and top. Her face lit up as she saw Solwen's flowers. "My goodness, whose are those?" she said, going to smell them.

"Solly's," her dad said. "From Brendal. He's feeling rather appreciative this morning, it seems."

"I wonder why," Nediriel said drily. She smelled the flowers again. "Just beautiful. And shadow lilies? I think I'll have to fully approve of him after all."

A win for Brendal, on Eomer's credit card. Did a King even have a credit card?

"You think those are nice, you should see what Erland just got," her dad said, pointing to the orchid box, which Erland was now carefully taking apart.

Stepping forward, Nediriel let out a light gasp. "Bema, Is that an _orchid_?"

"Fancy, isn't it?" her dad said.

"It's stunning," Nediriel murmured, reaching out to ever-so-gently stroke a blood-red petal. Frowning, she turned her gaze on Erland. "Is this from whoever you met last night?"

Erland nodded.

"From Elfhlem of Elgoll," their dad added. "As in, the Earl of Elgoll's son."

"That's who you were seeing?" said Nediriel, shocked. Seeing, yes. That was a lovely way to put it. Solwen was quite sure what Erland had seen the most was Elfhelm's crotch. "Well, that's wonderful," she added. "I'm very happy for you."

"Not sure the Elgolls will say the same thing," Solwen murmured into her coffee. What she wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall when Elfhelm had that conversation…

Her dad frowned. "Why the hell not?"

"An Elgoll, dating a _Hamelmark_? Come on, dad. That's like oil trying to date water."

"Oh, hush," Nediriel said, helping Erland to extract the flower spray from the package. "Careful, now, they're very fragile." She threw the supporting tube in the bin. "There's absolutely no reason the Earl of Elgoll should be anything other than absolutely thrilled. I would be, if I was him."

" _Thank_ you, Nediriel," Erland glared at Solwen. "Nice to have _someone's_ support."

"Oh, you have my support, don't get me wrong. Elfhelm seems like a really great guy." Solwen grinned. "I just hope he never invites you over for dinner."

"Why?"

"With the Elgolls? Lord and Lady Fancy Manners? The couple who probably wear white tie and tiaras just to have toast and tea?" She snorted. "Good fucking luck with that." Although, out of all of the Hamelmark kids, Erland had the best manners by far. He wouldn't do what Astalor did, use his soup spoon to eat his dessert.

"I don't think I need to worry about that just yet," Erland said.

"Okay, why do I never get fancy flowers?" Nediriel said, jamming her hands on her hips.

Everyone looked at her dad, who peered back over the rim of his cup. "I buy you flowers," he said to his wife. "All the time."

"Not shadow lilies, you don't. And certainly not orchids."

"That's because shadow lilies are supposed to be for new lovers. And we've been married for twenty-three years."

"Why not orchids then?"

"You have any idea how _excruciatingly_ expensive they are?"

Nediriel flapped her hands. "So, what, we're poor now?"

"No, but…"

"But, what?"

Her dad huffed. "Fine. I'll buy you some bloody orchids. What colour would you like?"

Nediriel scrunched her face at him. "Don't _tell_ me you're going to buy them. Be romantic. _Surprise_ me."

"You told me last night you don't like surprises," her dad shot back.

"Not surprises where I find out you invited someone to dinner and forgot to tell me. Surprises involving flowers, you can spring on me whenever you want." She smiled. "And nice jewellery as well. I'm never averse to that. Oh, and perfume, too."

"Is there anything else His Lordship should know about?'

"Not sure. Let Her Ladyship think about it."

"Me and my big fucking mouth," her dad muttered.

"Should maybe learn to think before you speak," Solwen said.

Not that she sometimes couldn't do with learning that lesson herself…


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendal asks for Colwenna for help, uncovers some interesting facts about places and people in the process, Eomer goes looking for a party guest list.

Saying a quick prayer for courage, Brendal knocked on Colwenna's door.

"Come in," a voice inside called out.

Brendal pushed the door in, a pleasant smile fixed firmly in place, ready to kow-tow a little. He and Colwenna didn't really get on, but he was here to ask for her help, so he needed to play a little nicer than usual. "Colwenna, hello, how are you today?"

As always, her own smile was cool but polite. "I'm very well, Brendal, thank you. And you?"

"I'm good."

She closed the folder she'd been reading. "What can I do for you today?"

"I was hoping to ask you something," he said. "But only if you have the time. I know how terribly busy you are."

"The King's due back at the Palace at three." And the clock read twenty past two. "Is thirty minutes enough?"

"More than enough."

"You better come in, then."

He stepped in, gently closing the door behind him. "I have a wee bit of a problem, and I was hoping you could help."

She frowned. "What kind of problem?"

"An etiquette problem." He couldn't think of how else to describe it. "I, um, I've been invited to a Solstice dinner tomorrow, and I'm not sure what to do." Before he lost his courage, he pushed on. "Specifically, I don't know what I should take as a gift."

To his profound relief, her expression softened. "That would depend on where the dinner is." She rose from her desk to put her folder away on a shelf. "Is it in a public establishment, or a private residence?"

"A private residence."

"And what's the social rank and profession of the hosting party?"

"An earl and a countess." Whether that was a rank, or a profession, he wasn't quite sure.

"Really?" she asked, brows shooting up.

Even he could occasionally shock the mighty Colwenna, then. Good. "The Earl of Hamelmark has invited me to Solstice dinner. And I have absolutely no idea what to do."

"Lady Solwen's father?" she asked, incredulous now.

"That's right."

"How on _earth_ did you wangle that?"

He couldn't exactly tell her the truth—that the Earl thought he and Lady Solwen were dating. Fortunately, he had a backup excuse that not even Fastmer would question. "The Earl's my distant cousin. Our parents live in the same suburb of Isendale." Not quite true, but close enough. "I don't know for sure, but I suspect he maybe thought I shouldn't be on my own for Solstice."

"That was very thoughtful of him."

"Between you and me, I'd have been happy to stay at home, Solstice isn't a big thing for me, but it didn't seem like the kind of invitation I should refuse."

"It certainly isn't." She took off her reading glasses, folded them up and stuck them in her breast pocket. "So, you're going to dinner at an earl's house, and you're not sure what to take with you."

"Yes."

"If you follow the usual rules, you'll need two gifts," she said raising the same number of fingers. "One for the hostess, and that's the Countess, one for the homeowner, and that's the Earl."

Two gifts. Great. As if one wasn't stressful enough. "Any suggestions on what they should be?"

"How many guests?"

He racked his brain, trying to remember what the Earl had said. "Five in the family, plus the Earl's father, plus two others. His ex-wife's other sons, I think he said. So, nine people, including me." Assuming the Earl hadn't since added some other people.

"I wouldn't take flowers for the hostess gift, then. They need to be dealt with, cut and put in a vase, and that's time she won't have when she's seeing to the needs of ten people. Chocolates are a much safer choice, they don't need any immediate attention." She raised a warning finger. "A nice brand, though. Not your budget supermarket stuff. And make sure they're wrapped."

"I can do that." There was a fancy place a few blocks from his house; he could check it out tomorrow.

"For the earl, wine is your safest bet." She smiled. "I would usually ask if he drinks first, but given Lady Solwen does, I doubt that's an issue."

Given what he remembered of the booze-fest that had been her older brother's coming-of-age party, it absolutely wasn't. "That's where I don't know what to do," Brendal confessed. "If I was buying wine for _my_ dad, I'd be fine. But an earl?" He shook his head. "Out of my league."

She nodded, understanding. "You need something just a _little_ more sophisticated."

"I don't even know if I should take a red or a white. I know it's supposed to be about what food we have, all that pairing stuff, but I have no idea what we'll be eating."

She shook her head. "They won't open your wine on the night. It's not what the Landed do. They'll open what they've already chosen for the occasion, add what you bring to their cellar stock instead, probably have it in a few months. And a few months from now is autumn, so I'd take a light red. No whites." She wrinkled her nose. "And _absolutely_ no rosés."

He wondered what rosé wine had done to offend her so much. "I have another question."

"What's that?"

"How on _earth_ do you know all this?"

Her smile was warmer now. "You don't work in the Meduseld Palace for twenty-odd years without picking up a thing or two about how the Landed class works. They have etiquette rules for _everything_. How to dress, how to speak, where to live, where to work, what car to drive. And especially about how and where to eat and drink. The stuff I just mentioned, it's not even scratching the surface of the top layer of the surface."

"Bema," he muttered. "Now I'm beginning to wish I'd just said no."

She patted his arm. "You'll be fine, don't worry. You're an invited guest, and they all know you're not Landed. It would be the height of bad manners to hold you to rules they know you won't know." She let out a sigh. "And the way Lady Solwen behaves tells me the Hamelmarks aren't the most etiquette-bound of the Landed families at the best of times."

He remembered what Solwen had told him when they'd first met, about how she'd puked a bottle of Red on somebody's shoes. "And the earl's father isn't Landed. He's just clan. Nothing fancy about him at all."

"Exactly."

"So, what you would suggest on the wine?"

"A light red, nice enough for an earl. Hmm." She gave a curt nod, as if she'd made a silent decision. "Come with me," she said, leading him to the door. "I know exactly what you should take."

He followed her down the hall, through a series of corridors, into a more opulent part of the Palace he'd never been in before. He was glad he'd taken his overalls off; in the middle of all these mirrors and gilding, he would have stood out like a sore thumb. She led him around a long bend, down a half-flight of stairs, along another hall with paintings of horses on the walls, up another half-flight of stairs and into an elevator. Holding her card to the security panel, she pressed the 'B' button.

"Am I allowed to ask where we're going?" he said.

"To the basement."

He'd gathered that from the 'B'. "And what's in the basement?" Not a prison cell or a dungeon, he hoped.

Her smile was enigmatic. "You'll see."

The elevator ground to a halt; she led him down a deserted, low-ceilinged, plain-walled corridor up to a heavy, reinforced door. Her card got them through here as well. The door swung in; the room beyond was dark and cool, with a touch of humidity in the air. As Colwenna walked forward, dim lights in the ceiling sprang on, revealing a tunnel maybe six metres wide vanishing into blackness. It was probably a trick of the light, but the tunnel looked as if it was a kilometre long.

But it wasn't just the length that made the tunnel stand out—it was the racks and racks and racks of bottles. Hundreds of them. _Thousands_ , even. In various shapes and sizes. All lying on their sides in slotted wooden shelves that ran almost up to the ceiling. Some bottles looked shiny and new, others were covered in years of dust.

He'd never seen so much booze in one place in his _life_.

"Mother of Eru," he murmured, looking around. "Where on earth are we?"

"We're in the second lowest level of the Palace. In a tunnel drilled through the Citadel Hill. Only the jewel vault is beneath us. And this"—both arms wide, she gestured around—"is the royal wine cellar."

So many bottles, all for one man? "Okay, but how much of this can His Majesty actually drink?"

"Oh, it's not just for him." She walked forward; more lights sprang on, another five metres of tunnel appeared. How far did the bloody thing go? And everywhere he looked was bottles. "Whenever the King hosts a social event, whether it's a private dinner for six or a state banquet for five hundred, everything the guests drink is brought up from here." She pointed to a section of shelving, where dozens of bottles had been marked with a red tag. "That's what we've set aside for the Midsummer party." She moved forward again, lighting another stretch, revealing some white-tagged bottles as well. "And that's we've set aside for the state banquet in August."

He scanned the tags; his mouth fell open. "That's got to be a whole liquor store's worth of booze." And not a small store, either.

"And that's only part of what we'll serve on the night. Just the regular wine to go with the main courses. Not the pre- or after-dinner drinks. The committee's still working on those."

"You have a _committee_ for booze?"

She nodded. "The Royal Household Wine Committee. Six of us, including me. The King has final say on everything we serve, of course, but he almost never questions our selections."

He scanned the tagged bottles again. "You really need that much? For _one_ banquet?"

"Brendal, you have _no idea_ how much people drink."

He remembered some Jordelane family parties; he was quite sure he did. "I don't imagine you buy budget brands, either."

She snorted. "This is the Meduseld Palace. We certainly do not. The cheapest bottle in here will set you back fifty pounds in a shop."

More than he could really afford, which made him question what they were doing. She hadn't actually told him what they were doing, but he wasn't stupid—he could guess. "Colwenna, are you sure we should be here? Maybe I should just go to the wine shop near my house. I'm sure they could help me as well."

"You'll do absolutely no such thing." She marched forward, tracing a finger along the racks, stopped in front of a slot, pulled out a bottle, put it back, moved a few slots along, did the same thing again. "Hmm," she said, hands on hips, frowning, tapping foot. "This one, I think." She grabbed a bottle from a low shelf, turned to hand it to him. "This is perfect. Nice enough you'll make a good impression, but not so nice the earl will think you robbed a liquor store to bring it."

Brendal brushed a light layer of dust from the label. It was all in Sindarin, which he could only speak, but the year read 2012. He knew enough about red wine to know it would be nicely aged. It was a huge help, but it still seemed a little dishonest. "Are you sure?" he said. "Isn't this, well, _stealing_?"

"I prefer to think of it as redistributing," Colwenna primly said.

"How on earth is this redistributing?"

"You pay taxes, don't you?"

National and regional, and plenty of both. "I certainly do."

"Everything we buy for this cellar, we pay for through the Household budget. Which is funded by the Sovereign Grant."

He saw where Colwenna was going. "Which comes from taxpayer funds."

"Every taxpayer in Rohan has contributed to the cost of this cellar. I don't think anyone would mind if you take a tiny share back."

"I'm not sure the King would see it that way."

Colwenna sighed. "Brendal, I'm quite sure His Majesty would let you take a whole case, never mind a single bottle." She gestured around. "There's more alcohol in this cellar than even the entire Household working together could drink in ten years. Nobody's going to miss one measly bottle of wine. Trust me."

She led him back to the door. Halfway there, he noticed something he hadn't seen on the way in—another slender, metal, reinforced door set in a gap in the racks. "Am I allowed to ask where that goes?" he said, wondering if His Majesty maybe had a Weed Cellar as well.

"That's what we call the Special Room," she said. "Where we keep the really valuable stuff. _And_ the weird or dangerous stuff." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "There's a bottle of Mordorian Ale."

"Mordorian Ale? Isn't that illegal?"

"It certainly is. But it belongs to the King, and technically, the King can't break the law."

Which explained why the cops could never give him a speeding ticket. "Okay, but isn't it basically liquid cannabis?"

"More or less, yes."

"Don't know why you haven't used it," he said. "Seems like the perfect thing to serve at a state function to me. Get everyone nice and relaxed."

"Brendal, we do _not_ give psychoactive substances to His Majesty's guests. No matter how much we might dislike them."

"You could try giving it to the old Queen," he said without thinking.

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

That might have been a witty observation too far. "It's just, I've heard she can be a bit of a handful."

"So?"

"So, maybe a shot or two of Mordorian Ale would soften her up a little. Make her easier to deal with."

"That's… my Gods, Brendal, that's a _brilliant_ idea." She flapped her hands. "Bema, why did I never think of that?"

He couldn't help but grin. "You're very welcome."

"I tell you what, though," she leaned in to murmur. "If this thing with Lady Solwen ever turns serious, when the Old Queen finds out who her grandson is dating, she'll need some liquid cannabis then."

"She won't approve?"

"That's an understatement so great, it's almost a crime."

"She's an earl's daughter. What is there to disapprove of?"

"She's a _Hamelmark_ , Brendal," Colwenna said, as if that instantly explained the whole matter.

At the main door, Colwenna went to a screen in the wall he hadn't noticed on the way in. She held her card to a scanning slot, gestured for him to give him the bottle, scanned a slender barcode label someone had stuck on the bottom. The screen beeped, a description of the bottle appeared. She scrolled down a menu of explanation options, selected a row that read 'HM Personal Use' and jabbed the card on the Enter button. "There," she said. "Checked out and accounted for. All done."

"What would happen if you didn't do that?" Nothing good, he imagined.

"It would be flagged as an anomaly in the end of year audit. Which wouldn't necessarily be a problem, there's a margin of error for data entry mistakes and spoilage, but best not to raise any flags if we don't have to."

"What if the King looks at the records? Won't he remember he didn't actually drink it?"

She gave him an impatient look. "Brendal, the King once spent twenty minutes looking for his sunglasses before I pointed out they were sitting on top of his head. He's not going to remember if he did or didn't drink one particular bottle of wine in any one year. Trust me."

She pushed through the reinforced door, leading him back into the warmer, drier hallway outside. Confusingly, once they were out of the elevator, she took him back to her office by a different, even more circuitous route, to the point where he had absolutely no idea where he was. She could vanish, leave him here, and he would never be able to find out his way out.

"Thank you for your help," he said as they walked. "It's much appreciated."

"You're very welcome. When it comes to dealing with the Landed, us regular people have to stick together."

"Are you saying the Landed aren't regular people?"

She ground to halt, raising a brow. "You go to this Solstice dinner tomorrow night, come see me on Monday morning, tell me what you think of them then."

His stomach started to churn. "Now I'm a little bit scared."

"Don't be. The Hamelmarks will be more towards the normal end of the scale. It'll just be fascinating instead of frightening. Like going to the zoo to see the lions, but watching them from behind the fence instead of being in the enclosure with them." She led him through a door, into a part of the Palace he knew. Finally, he was back on familiar ground—he wouldn't die of starvation lost and wandering in the building's bowels. "Now, if you were going where the King is going for Solstice dinner, that would be an entirely different matter," she added.

"Where's he going?"

"To Lord and Lady Elgoll's," she whispered. "Lovely people, kind and honourable to a fault, but my Gods, the _fuss_ they make for what should be a simple dinner party? It'll be at least a five act event."

"To be fair, if the King was coming to my house for dinner, I'd probably make a fuss as well."

"Very true, yes. I know they mean well, and that it's just a sign of how much respect they have for the Crown. But they always make it a black tie event, and getting the King to wear black tie, it's like getting a cat to wear a shirt. He'll do it, but he complains so much, you end up wishing you'd just left him go in his underwear instead."

Bema, there was an image. "The Elgolls, that's Lord Elfhelm's parents, isn't it?"

"That's right. Like I said, lovely people. Just very proper, would be the nicest word I can use." She put on a formal tone. "When one has dinner with an Elgoll, Brendal, one must know how to eat one's asparagus correctly, and which way one should pass the food."

"Okay, _what_?"

"Rules, Brendal. Silly rules. But nothing you'll have to worry about."

"How can you eat asparagus _incorrectly_? Don't you just slice it into chunks and stick it with your fork?"

"If it's being served in a sauce, or as a side dish, yes. But if it's being served on its own, with or without a dip, you're supposed to use your fingers. But you always use your left hand. Never your right hand."

"That's…"

"Ridiculous? Arbitrary? Illogical?" She nodded. "It certainly us." They reached her office, pausing outside. "What you have to remember is, this is etiquette, not manners. Good manners are a wonderful thing. They make life more pleasant for everyone, but they don't have to be complicated. They can be as simple as holding a door, or saying thank you when someone holds a door for you. But etiquette is a system of rules, created by various, unappointed people for various, undetermined reasons, with no real rhyme or reason to them at all. And only the people on the inside know all the rules. The Landed aren't just a social class. They're the country's most exclusive club. And like any exclusive club, it has a way to keep the little people out."

"And not knowing how to eat asparagus makes you the little people?"

"In their eyes, absolutely, yes."

He was quite happy to be part of the little people, then. But he was also curious about how it all worked. "Okay, so what way _do_ you pass food?"

"Always to your right. You hold the bowl while the next person serves their portion. And you always wait for things to make their way to you. Never, ever reach across people, or ask for something out of order. And never finish what's in the bowl, no matter how little is left, and even if everyone else has served themselves already. And never cut your dinner roll with a knife, you always tear it open with your thumbs. And for the love of Bema, if they serve peas, do _not_ scoop them up with your fork."

"How the hell do I eat them, then?"

She sighed. "It's complicated. Just watch what everyone else does. Or don't take any in the first place. That might be the easier option."

"I have another question. But it might be a little vulgar."

"Of course."

"Who died and put these ridiculous _arseholes_ in charge of our country?"

"I see it more as we let them think they're in charge, but it's regular people like you and me who do all the real work."

That was the second time she'd used that description. "I'm glad you still think of yourself as a regular person."

She frowned. "Why on earth wouldn't I?"

"You're the head of the King's Household. Closer to him than almost anyone else in the world. And you actually live in the Palace."

"All very true. But I'm also the daughter of a car mechanic and a shop worker from the poorest suburb of Strone."

That took him by surprise. "Your dad was a mechanic?"

She nodded. "But cars for him. Not bikes."

"I had no idea."

"I can probably clean a carburetor better than you can."

"I don't doubt it."

"Would you like to know who else in the Palace is the son of a car mechanic?" she whispered with a conspiratorial smile.

"Who?"

"Fenbrand."

"You're shitting me," he blurted.

"I wish I was."

"But he's so… so…"

"Pompous?"

"I was thinking of another word, but aye, let's go with that."

She opened her office door, beckoned him in. "Just remember that the next time you have a run-in with him. For all his airs and graces, he's not from anywhere fancier or nicer than you. He's only where he is because he earned a scholarship to Harrowfax, the same way I'm only where I am because I earned a scholarship to Rinsdale."

He'd heard both names, knew they were expensive private schools. "Is that where you met the King's mother? Princess Theodwyn, I mean?"

"It was, yes." But the way she said it made it clear that was all she had to say on the matter.

Back to her original point. "He doesn't talk like the son of a car mechanic. He's got the plummiest accent I've ever heard. He's even plummier than the King."

"That's always the case with converts, though, isn't it? They immerse themselves in the system to the point they know more about it and sound more convincing than the people born in it."

Did she realize, she was also describing herself? "I'm not sure I'll ever be able to look at him the same way."

"Just be careful," she warned. "Don't let on that you know. And if he finds out, it never came from me, you hear?"

"Of course."

She went to her cupboard, rifled through the contents until she found a long, narrow bag. She slipped the bottle in and handed it to him. "There. So nobody in the garage thinks you just pilfered something from the King's cellars."

"I _did_ just pilfer something from the King's cellars."

She tutted at him. "Yes, but nobody needs to know that, do they?"

"Now I'd love to know what else you might have helped people to pilfer over the years."

Her smile was excruciatingly polite. "I'm quite sure you would."

That was the limit of her information-sharing, then. Fair enough—she'd already shared more than he'd ever expected to hear. "Thank you again. This was enormously helpful." And he wasn't saying that just to be nice—he was still stressed about the dinner thing, but nowhere near as much as before.

"As I said, you're very welcome. Oh, and now I think about it, could do me a small favour in return?"

"Of course."

She went to her cupboard again, bringing out a small paper bag with handles—the kind a gift shop would put a gift in. "Could you take this to Lady Solwen for me? I was going to have it delivered, but you could be my courier instead."

He took the bag, peered inside, but the contents were wrapped in another bag. The second bag was slightly transparent—the thing inside looked like an item of clothing, but he couldn't be sure. "Not a problem. Happy to help."

"Tell her there's a note inside she should read first. She'll understand."

He was dying to know, what the hell there was to understand, but that was well above his pay grade—he was just the courier here.

"Thanks again," he said, turning to the door. "I'll let you get back to work."

"And Brendal?"

"Yes?"

"Monday morning, come tell me _all_ the gossip," she said with a smile.

"It's just dinner at the Earl of Hamelmark's house. How gossip-worthy will it be?"

Fenbrand's office was empty.

And not empty because Fenbrand was in the building but somewhere else—empty because he wasn't here. There was no overcoat on the hook, no briefcase sitting beside the door, no lunch hour book at the side of the desk, no paperwork on the blotter.

Hardly surprising—it was just after four the day before Solstice. The whole admin floor was deserted—everyone who could had already left. And even a workaholic like Fenbrand was allowed to have a life.

Now. Where might the banquet guest list be? Where would Fenbrand have put it? Eomer tried the drawers in the desk, then the drawers in the bureau. Sadly, both locked. And Fenbrand probably had the key.

Hmm.

He stepped back into the outer office where all of Fenbrand's people sat, just as Connet stepped through the main door. Connet froze, caught in a moment of absolute fear, then remembered his etiquette, and gave a small bow. "Your Majesty," he said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Eomer smiled, trying to put Connet at ease. "There certainly is. I was looking for Fenbrand. Do you know if he's still around?"

Connet shook his head. "I'm afraid he's gone for the day, sir. He went home early this morning."

"Really?" That wasn't like Fenbrand—Eomer couldn't remember when his Principal Private Secretary had last taken any unplanned time off. "Is he okay?"

"He said he wasn't feeling well, sir. Nothing bad, he just wanted to go home and lie down for the day."

Or when he'd last been sick. "Huh."

"But I'm happy to help if I can, sir," Connet offered, eagerness personified—a puppy with a new master.

He probably couldn't help, but no harm in trying. "Would you happen to know, if Fenbrand has a copy of the final guest list for the Oath Anniversary Banquet event?"

"I'm afraid I don't, sir. That's a task I haven't been brought in on." Connet brightened. "But Harstan, the Senior Comptroller, he may have a copy as well."

Except, he knew for a fact Harstan wasn't here. "Yes, but he's on vacation this week."

Connet's face fell. "Of course, yes."

"You don't happen to have the keys for Fenbrand's desk and bureau, do you?" A rather improper request, but he _was_ the King, and this was his Palace, so technically, the desk and bureau were his.

"I'm afraid I don't, sir, no. As far as I know, Fenbrand has the only key."

"Hmm."

"I'm sure he'll be back first thing on Monday, sir," Connet added, trying to be helpful again.

Except, Monday was three days away. And he wanted to get to the bottom of what Aragorn had told him ASAP.

But short of breaking into the bureau and desk, he didn't really have any choice but to wait.

"Thank you, Connet," Eomer said with a nod and a smile. "You've been very helpful. Make sure you don't stay too late. Go enjoy your Solstice weekend." He strode out the door, heading back to his own office.

Whatever was in that guest list, would just have to wait.


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The explanation for Astalor's shitty behaviour comes out - time for a Hamelmark intervention and family therapy session. Lots of things to discuss, including what Thelden Camelor said to Solwen...
> 
> Warning for minor drug use, mention of drug addiction, mention of past threat of sexual assault.

**Saturday June 20, 2020**

Erland was at the end of the garden, sitting in the shrubbery nook that wasn't visible from the house, slowly puffing his way through a joint.

"Bit early for that, isn't it?" Solwen said, grabbing a seat on the opposite wall.

His answer was a half-hearted shrug.

"You feeling anxious about something?" she asked.

"Not at the moment, no." He smirked. "Ask me again at eight o'clock tonight, I might have a different answer for you."

So, it was pre-emptive anxiety, then—the prospect of facing a family dinner. "I think by eight o'clock, I'll need a hit as well." Just thinking about it made her want to go back to bed and burrow under the covers. "The five of us, plus grandpa, plus Brendal, plus Darion and Roddig? It'll be a miracle if we make it to ten o'clock without at least one massive fight."

He shook his head. "If it was just us lot and the twins, maybe, but not with Brendal here. Nediriel will never allow it."

"When one is Landed, one does not fight in front of one's guests." She almost added a comment about not tarnishing one's family honour, but the Hamelmarks didn't have much of that to begin with. Or care about what they had, for that matter.

"She's really softening on Brendal, you know. Starting to think you dating him isn't such a weird thing after all."

"It was the flowers," Solwen said. "They really impressed her." Not as much as Erland's orchids had, but with flowers, there were orchids, and there was everything else, so it wasn't really a fair competition.

"Just a pity Brendal didn't actually buy them."

"Nobody needs to know that."

"You'll need to warn Brendal before he arrives. So he knows to lie when Nediriel compliments him on his taste. Because she's definitely going to do that."

"It's all in hand. Don't worry."

"Are you giving him any other prep?"

He made it sound as if she needed to douse him in lube and depilate him. "I'm meeting him at the bus stop, I'll give him some basic pointers on the way back. Not too much. Just enough to help him get through the meal in one piece. I expect you to help, by the way."

"Of course. I assume Brendal knows who you're actually dating?"

"He was there when we met."

"Really?"

She nodded. "In the garage at the Palace."

He stubbed his joint out. "Who or what do you want me to focus on?"

She mulled her choices, trying to decide who at the dinner would cause the most trouble. "Concentrate on dad. And keep an eye on Roddy as well, make sure he doesn't start his sarcastic bastard routine." With any guest, not just Brendal. But Brendal would be the only guest who hadn't dealt with Roddy's bullshit before.

"Was already planning to do that. Mum called me last night, warned me Roddy's been winding people up pretty bad this week, gave us all permission to step on him as much as we want."

"Have I ever told you how much I like your mum?"

"She's pretty cool."

He peeked out beyond the hedge, making sure nobody else was in the garden. "Have you spoken to you-who-know today?" he whispered.

"Erland, you can just say his name. Nobody in the house can hear us."

"I know that. But he's the King. It still feels a bit weird."

Understandable; it still felt a bit weird for her as well. "I haven't spoken to him today, no. He texted me early this morning, asking me how I was. Told me his schedule's pretty packed today, so if I text him, not to expect a quick response."

"Did you thank him for the flowers?"

"I certainly did." And she would thank him in a more creative way on Monday.

"Did you tell him off for discussing your desk abuse with his best friend?"

"I didn't, no."

"You're letting him off the hook?"

"Not at all. I'm just not going to do it over the phone." She didn't want to break too many of Algrin's rules. Not yet, at least. "I'll raise it when I see him on Monday."

"Spank him for being a naughty boy?" he said, grinning.

"Yeah, no, that's not really my jam." She gestured at him. "What about you? Have you heard from Elfhelm again?"

He nodded. "We've been texting. I thanked him for the orchids. Couldn't see him last night, turns out he had a thing to go to with his dad. Can't see him tonight, obviously, we both have family dinners." He sighed. "Can't see him tomorrow morning, he's doing something with the King. But maybe tomorrow night."

She wondered what the something with Eomer was. "Patience, my young apprentice."

"Says the woman who's probably counting the hours until she can rail her boyfriend over a desk again."

"A little bit, yes." She stood up, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "But it sounds as if Elfhelm's as eager as you are, so I wouldn't worry. He's not going to cut you dead just because your schedule's aren't cooperating right now."

"Does it bother you? That I'm trying to hook up with your new boyfriend's best friend?"

"Not in the slightest. When we first had lunch, we actually joked about getting the two of you together."

"Really?"

"Elfhelm's love life has apparently been as hilarious to follow as yours has."

"I would make a comment about pots and kettles, but you helped the two of us hook up, so I'll let you off."

"Just this once, though, right?"

"Absolutely."

Footsteps crunched along the path. "Incoming," Erland muttered, hiding the stubbed out joint under a rock at his feet.

A few seconds later, their dad stuck his head round the hedge. "The hell are the two of you doing out here?"

"Plotting to kill you," was Erland's instant response.

"Well, that's nice," their dad said. A cigarette came out of his shirt pocket, a disposable lighter came out of his jeans. "Just remember, if I die, you have to sit in the Hall," he added, pointing at Erland. The pointing finger turned on her. "And you don't get anywhere near as much money as you'd think."

Solwen waved him away. "Not having to put up with your bullshit would be all the payment I need."

Their dad winked. "Touché."

She gestured at the cigarette. "You said you were giving them up."

"I am." He lit the cigarette. "Just slowly. Cold turkey isn't my thing, so I'm cutting them down to a couple a day."

"It's a disgusting habit, you know," Erland said.

Their dad grinned as he puffed. "Says the man who just stuffed the remains of a blunt under a rock."

"I don't smoke blunts. I smoke joints. There's a difference."

"Oh, well. Excuse the ignorant hell out of me."

"Was there something you wanted to talk about?" Solwen said. "Or did you just decide we deserved to be blessed with your majestic paternal presence?"

"I'm keeping out of Hedwin's way. She's helping Nediriel with the food for tonight." Their dad shrugged. "You know how she gets when she's cooking."

"Has she threatened you with a knife yet?" a grinning Erland asked.

"She's only at the death glare stage so far. I thought I should make myself scarce before the knife throwing kicked in."

"Good choice," Solwen said. Hedwin was a great housekeeper and an amazing cook, but not a woman you ever wanted to annoy. Even when one was technically her employer.

Their dad waved a cigarette at them. "Oh, and while I remember, I called Runolf Breakspear this morning, the Commandant of the Hall, told him about my love letter."

"What did he say?" Solwen asked.

"He told me to put the letter somewhere safe and not touch it again, and to switch the outside cameras on all the time, instead of just overnight."

"The cameras, of course," Erland said. "I forgot about them. I assume you checked the footage from Friday morning?"

"I did. But Nediriel switched the security system off when she came down in the morning, that was just before eight. I think whoever brought the letter must have come by later."

"Should talk to the mailman," Solwen suggested. "See if he saw anything weird on his round."

Erland asked, "What else did the Commandant say?"

"He told me he's going to speak to his contact in the Parliamentary Protection Group," their dad added.

The branch of the Metropolitan Police which provided protection for all Parliament buildings and members. "He thinks it's serious enough to refer to the police, then?" Solwen said.

Their dad nodded. "Says it's probably nothing, just piss and wind from someone who doesn't have the courage to accuse me to my face, but he would rather be safe than sorry." He took a drag, blew out a light puff of smoke. "He said they might need to speak to everyone who saw or touched the letter, which would include you two, but it's just a routine thing to establish the facts, nothing to worry about."

"When would that be?" Not Monday night, she hoped.

"No idea. Sometime next week."

Footsteps crunched on the path again, louder this time, someone moving with determination. Anger, almost.

The new arrival was Astalor, sullen-faced, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Hey, kiddo, what's up?" their dad said, shooting his younger son a smile.

"Hedwin's getting tetchy."

"Getting?" Erland murmured.

Astalor huffed. "Don't know why we even have her."

"She's worked for us since just after your brother was born," their dad said. "The amount of bullshit she's put up with over the years, she's allowed to be tetchy."

"And she's only tetchy when she's trying to cook," Solwen pointed out. "Best solution is just to stay out of her way and let her do whatever she needs to do."

"So, what are you all talking about?" Astalor asked.

Their dad finished his cigarette, stubbed it out on the ground. "Nothing much. Just gossiping like a bunch of truckers."

"No you're not," said Astalor, accusing. "You're out here talking about something interesting, and you don't want me to know what it is."

"Asta…" Erland started.

"You _never_ want me to know," Astalor complained. "You have all these secrets, and you never share any of them with me."

In the calmest voice he could find, their dad said, "What secrets do you think I'm not sharing with you today?"

Astalor made a face. "I don't know. Political stuff. Secrets about what you're doing at work."

"Asta, I'm more than happy to talk to you about what I do at work," their dad said, still totally calm. "But you've always made it perfectly clear you have zero interest in politics."

"That's not the point."

"Then, what _is_ the point?" their dad said, softly. "This is obviously bothering you, you've been like a horse with a loose shoe all week, so tell me, please."

Astalor kicked a pebble along the path. "I just"—he heaved a sigh—"I just feel as if you're always leaving me out."

"Of what?"

"I don't know. Of _stuff_."

"Okay, but what stuff?"

More footsteps on the path, a shorter stride, rushing this time instead of strolling. Bema. It was getting to be like Edoras Avenue out here. She and Erland would have to find a new place to gossip. Maybe up on the fucking roof.

Nediriel appeared, wearing an apron over her t-shirt and jeans, breathless, face lit up in pure joy. She was holding a stiff piece of card. "You won't believe what just came in the mail," she said to their dad. She held the card out to him. "Look at this."

Frowning, their dad took the card from her, brushing some flour from the top corner. His lips moved as he silently recited the text. Mouth hanging slightly open, he looked to Nediriel. "Is this for real?"

Smiling so hard Solwen thought her stepmother might hurt her face, Nediriel nodded. "It's real, yes. The envelope had the wax seal on it."

Wax seal. Something Landed and formal, then…

"What is it?" Erland asked, moving in close, angling his head to read the card. His eyes went wide. "Holy fuck," he murmured. "They've invited the two of you as well."

"Who has?" Astalor demanded. "To what? What is it?"

Their dad sighed. "The King has invited your mother and I to the Midsummer Party at the Palace."

Everyone looked at everyone else. It was wonderful news, if slightly surprising news as well.

It wasn't wonderful for Astalor. "So, you're going to the party now as well?" He threw up his hands. "Well, that's just fucking great." He jabbed a finger at their dad. "This is _exactly_ what I meant. You all get to go to a fancy party, and I don't."

"It's the King's Midsummer party," Erland said. "It's an _adult_ event."

"I'm twenty-two!"

"Not adult enough. Solly will probably be one of the youngest guests."

"This is so fucking unfair," Alastor spat. "Why the hell are they even inviting any of you, anyway? When did anyone here become such a good friend of the King?"

Bema. Out of the mouths of babes. Or, in this case, younger brothers. "This is probably because of dad's speech," Solwen said, trying to channel her father's calmness. "What he said in his rebuttal helped the King to keep his job. But the King can't thank him in a public way, so he's thanking him by inviting him to the party instead." That was her guess; she would check with Eomer later.

"Your sister's right," Nediriel said to her son. "This isn't something we ever expected to happen. It's probably a one-off event."

Glowering, Astalor kicked another pebble. "Still doesn't explain why she and Erland were invited," he muttered.

"I don't think they really know either," their dad said. He looked to Solwen. "You don't have any idea?"

Before she could answer, Erland stepped in. "I actually asked Elfhelm about that, and he told me The Princess Royal likes to use the Midsummer party as a bit of a matchmaking event."

"So, she invited you because you're _single_?"

Erland nodded.

Their dad turned Astalor's way. "See?" he said. "No conspiracy here. You're too young for a matchmaking party as well."

"Except, neither of them are single," Astalor pointed out. "They both have boyfriends now."

"We were single at the time the invites went out," Erland added. "I only met Elfhelm on Thursday."

"I suppose you're going to accept?" Astalor said to his mum, radiating resentment.

Nediriel gave the firmest nod Solwen had ever seen. "Of course we are." She raised a finger to her husband. "And don't even _think_ of trying to refuse. I will literally divorce you and sue you for every single penny you have before I let this invite go."

"Well, when you put it like that," their dad muttered, eyes smiling.

"So, you all go to a fancy party, and I get to sit at home on my own." Astalor threw up his arms again. "Awesome."

" _Enough_ ," Nediriel said, eyes blazing. "Not everything in the world is about you. And the sooner you learn that, the better."

"Well, it's not about you either, apparently," Astalor snapped.

Shocked, Nediriel stepped back.

Their dad's tone wasn't calm now. "Don't you _dare_ take that tone with your mother," he snapped. "You want to live in this house, you remember your manners when you're speaking to her."

Astalor stared at the ground, stuffing his hands in his pockets again. "I'm sorry," he eventually said. "You're right. I shouldn't have spoken to mum like that. But what I said is true. You're keeping things from her as well as from me."

"Like what?" their dad said.

"Like whatever it is the three of you came out here to gossip about," Astalor said, pointing to indicate which three he meant. "And you're not here just to have a cigarette and a joint. There's something else going on."

"Duncan?" Nediriel said, softly prompting. "Is that true?"

Solwen could actually see her dad prevaricating—turning his options in his head, trying to decide if he should tell the truth, or keep his wife and son in the dark, and what each option would cost. Fortunately, he chose the former. "A little bit, yes," he said.

Now, Nediriel threw up her hands. "Great. So, you're shutting me out of stuff as well."

"I didn't want you to worry. And the only reason Solly and Erland know is that they were there when it happened."

"When what happened?"

Their dad took another cigarette out of his pocket—probably one he'd been keeping for later.

Scowling, Nediriel snatched it and threw it away. "Talk. Don't smoke."

"I, um, got something yesterday in the mail. A letter of sorts." Their dad sighed. "Something that could be taken as a threat."

Nediriel's eyes went wide. "What kind of threat?"

"Someone calling me a traitor."

"Why on earth would anyone ever call you _that_?"

"Because of what dad said in his speech," Solwen calmly put in. "A lot of people in the Hall would have taken his calls for reforms as a betrayal of the Landed class. They like how the system works. They don't really want it to change."

"Was it something that came in the mail?" Astalor asked.

Their dad shook his head. "Hand delivered." He gestured Solwen's way. "Solly found it on the mat."

Nediriel asked, "So, whoever it was, they came to our house?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me," she flatly stated. "Someone sent you what could be viewed as a death threat, and you left me swinging in the wind."

"Like I said. I didn't want you to worry."

"Right, yes, because if someone means _you_ harm, the best possible solution is for me and Astalor to just wander about town like usual, completely and utterly unaware of the fact there's a problem." Nediriel's voice was full of scorn. "What could _possibly_ go wrong? I mean, it's not as if we're remotely important to you. It's not as if anyone could use us to get to you."

Bema. She hadn't thought about that. "That's actually a really good point," Solwen said. "If there's a threat, it's something we should _all_ be aware of. So we all know to be safe." Her smile to Nediriel was apologetic. "I'm sorry I didn't think of that. We should have included you at the time." She looked to Astalor. "Both of you."

"You're right," her dad said, nodding, shamefaced. "I should have shared the information with everyone. I didn't think of the ramifications either."

"You never bloody do," Nediriel muttered. "You always just go and do whatever the hell you want, without bothering to tell any of us what you're doing. And to be honest, I'm getting a bit tired of it."

She wasn't the only one…

"Okay, can we all just agree the original issue should have been handled better, agree to set that aside for now?" Erland—ever the peacemaker—said. "I didn't think it through at the time, either. It wasn't just dad. We all fucked up."

Sighing, Nediriel nodded. "So, what do we need to do?"

"Nothing special," their dad said. "The cameras are running twenty-four hours, so if anyone comes to the house again, we'll get footage of them. Don't leave any doors unlocked"—he glared at Astalor, who huffed—"and be a little more cautious when you're out and about. Don't be paranoid, just be aware and safe."

"Relaxed Awareness," Solwen said.

"What's that?" Nediriel asked.

"It's one of the levels in the Situational Awareness training I took when I worked in Mordor. It's when you're one step higher than Tuned Out. You're paying attention to stuff, but not to the point of feeling stressed. It's, like, when you go to the theatre, you figure out where the nearest emergency exit is, but after that, you sit just back and enjoy the show."

Erland nodded. "We use a different term at my place, but the underlying concept's the same." Smiling, he gave Astalor a gentle poke. "No walking on auto-pilot with your headphones in. Pay attention. Know where you are."

"I always know where I am."

"Uh huh."

"So, all of you, be safe, please," their dad said. To Solwen, directly, he added, "You in particular. No walking through deserted areas downtown at night on your own. Get a cab, I'll pay the bill."

She'd walked through every city she'd ever lived in at various hours of the day, nothing had ever happened to her, but she knew better than to argue with him here. "Don't worry, I won't."

"Why only her?" Astalor demanded.

Erland sighed. "Astalor—"

"No, don't 'Astalor' me." Astalor gestured Solwen's way. "Why are you only worried about her? Do Erland and I not count?"

"I worry about all of you," their dad said, sounding a little irate. "But your sister in particular. And stop saying 'her'. She has a name."

"But why h—Solwen in particular? Because she's a _girl_?"

"Astalor," Nediriel murmured. "You know it's not like that. Let's not do this today, please."

"But it _is_ like that." Astalor scrunched his face at their dad. "You've _always_ play favourites with her. And I _hate_ it."

Solwen was the shocked one, now. Was that really how Astalor felt? Out of the three of them, she was definitely the one who had the most in common with their dad, the one who had the strongest connection to him, but that didn't mean he favoured her over his other two kids. He didn't operate like that. Never had, never would.

Tight-lipped, their dad shook his head. "I never play favourites. The relationship I have with your sister, it's different from the one I have with you, and different again from the one I have with Erland. But you're all special to me in your own ways. Nobody's being shut out."

"Why that bullshit line about her in particular, then? Do Erland and I not matter?"

Their dad let out a light groan. "Bema, Astalor, don't be ridiculous, of _course_ you matter." Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. "It's just…"

"What?" Astalor demanded.

"You're not the one whose mother was stabbed and left to die in the street," their dad blurted.

Silence.

Nediriel closed her eyes. Erland sighed and looked at the ground.

Solwen simply stared straight ahead, listening to the sound of her own breathing, her dad's words ringing in her ears. It wasn't that she didn't know how her mum had died. She'd just never heard him talk about it. Even now, after twenty-six years, it was still too difficult for him.

"I don't see why that matters," Astalor said, rampaging on, utterly oblivious to the pain he was causing. "I know it was a terrible thing, but if you're worried about it happening again, you should worry about all of us, not just Solwen."

"Okay, you know what?" Their dad threw up his hands. "I'm fucking _done_. I'm not talking about this anymore." He took a step towards the house, until Nediriel got in his way.

"No," Nediriel said, holding a hand to his chest, her tone as firm as her gaze. "You're not running away. Whatever problems we have here, nobody's leaving until we've resolved them." She looked around the group. "We're going to talk this out, like the sensible adults we are. And then we're going to sit down tonight, all five of us, plus Haradoc and Roddig and Darion and Brendal, and we're going to have a nice, civilized, family meal. _Is that clear_?"

Four heads silently nodded. When Nediriel spoke like that, even Haradoc wasn't brave enough to argue with her.

Nediriel turned to her son. "You need to watch your mouth." Astalor started to protest; she raised a hand to cut him off. "I understand some of what you feel, but the way you express yourself is _appalling_. You're twenty-two, not twelve. Stop throwing childish tantrums. Think before you speak. Recognize that yours are not the only feelings involved. Have some consideration for other people."

Head hanging again, Astalor looked around. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I just"—he sighed—"I just don't always understand why dad behaves the way he does." Another sigh. "Especially with Solwen." He gave his dad a puzzled look. "It's as if you think she's needs to be protected, but Erland and I don't. And it _really_ annoys me."

Solwen snorted. "I'm not having fun with it either, trust me."

"Not helping," Erland muttered.

"Sorry," she said.

Their dad was back to perfectly calm. "Astalor, the _concern_ I express for your sister isn't because I love her more than I love you. It's because I'm absolutely fucking _terrified_ history's going to repeat itself." His voice broke, very slightly. "That what happened to her mother will happen to her as well."

"That's just silly," Astalor said.

"I never said it was a rational thing! Whenever your sister leaves the house, ninety-nine percent of me knows she's going to be absolutely fine. That she'll meet her friends, have a few drinks, catch a bus, come home safe and sound, just like she said. And then there's the one percent of me that can't stop thinking about the night her mum died. About how Nemeshet went out to meet her friends, and never came home. It's like this tiny voice in my head that just sits in the corner and _screams_ at me. And the only thing that makes it shut up is when Solly comes home."

"But you don't get that with Erland or me," Astalor concluded.

"Not the same way, no. But that's not a conscious thing," he said. "It doesn't mean I don't care about you, or that I don't worry at all. It doesn't mean I would go to bed without knowing you were safe. And I'm sorry if that difference offends you. But that's just the way it is. If I could find a way to make this stupid voice switch off, trust me, I would. And Bema knows your sister wants it to switch off as much as I do."

This was the first time she'd heard him describe what it meant, how the stress of her mother's death manifested itself. "Do you think it'll ever switch off?" she asked. Or, was this just going to be how it was, for the rest of her adult life?

"Not while Thelden Camelor's walking the streets, it bloody well isn't," he muttered.

Yes, that would definitely be something that kept the voice screaming. "He's just one man, dad. And he hasn't so much as breathed near me since I came home. I doubt he's any threat."

"I know that. But I'd still feel much better if someone found him dead in a ditch one morning."

A not impossible outcome, given how many enemies Thelden apparently had. Even more since he'd been arrested for securities fraud.

"I'd really like to know what he did," said Astalor, putting his ignorant foot in it all over again.

"Astalor," Nediriel said, "for the love of Bema, give it a rest, please. You've stirred up enough shit for one day."

"I know I have, but this is another example of what I was talking about. You all know the story, but I don't. I was only twelve when it happened, and all I remember is standing with mum, watching dad giving his oath to the King, then all hell breaking loose at the back of the Hall, and Thelden Camelor screaming and swearing and holding his nose. And you never told me why. And you _still_ won't tell me now. And I fucking _hate_ it."

"He threatened your sister," Nediriel said. "In an extremely unpleasant way."

"Why the fuck would anyone threaten someone at a confirmation ceremony? When the King was in the same room? What fucked up kind of sense does that make?"

Solwen's temper snapped. "You better not be calling me a liar," she said. She'd heard plenty of people ask the same questions, use the lack of obvious answers to question her word. She didn't need her own brother doubting her story as well.

"How can I call you a liar when I don't even know what everyone did?" Astalor cried. "I mean, when you say an unpleasant way, what do you mean? Did he have a knife? Did he shove you? And why the hell did you get the blame? _We_ all believe you. Why does nobody else?"

"It's complicated," their dad said.

"I know it is. Stop treating me like a baby and explain it to me!"

"If you don't want to be treated like a baby, stop acting like one!" their dad shouted. "Remember what your mother said. Have some consideration for other people! This isn't just about you! Has it ever occurred to you, the reason we don't talk about it is that your sister doesn't want to? Because talking about it upsets her?"

That took the wind right out of Astalor's sails. "I'm sorry. I never thought of that." He looked to her. "Does it upset you?"

She nodded.

"So, do you really want to keep asking about it, or can you just leave it alone?" Erland asked.

Except, forcing him to leave it alone would likely only add to Astalor's sense of exclusion. "I'll tell you the whole story," she said. "Right now. But this will be the only time I talk about it. You don't ever raise it with me again. And whatever I tell you, you do _not_ share with anyone else."

Astalor nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

"You understand what she's saying, right?" their dad said. "Whatever she tells you, no treating it as scurrilous gossip to share with your friends. It's private. And sensitive." He raised a finger. "This is what being included in things means. Knowing to keep those things to yourself. Knowing that if you don't, you won't ever be included in things again, because nobody will trust you. You understand?"

Solemn-faced, Astalor nodded. "I understand. And I promise, I won't share."

"But only Astalor," Solwen said. She would share, but she wasn't turning this into a three-ring circus event. Everyone else already knew the whole story, they didn't need to hear it again. "So, the rest of you can sod off back inside."

Erland gave a curt nod, as always, completely compliant. "Sodding off now," he murmured, stepping out onto the path.

"Hedwin probably thinks I fell over the side of the hill," Nediriel said. She turned a warning glare on her son. "Listen more than you talk. And don't say anything that doesn't need to be said." She followed Erland.

Their dad said nothing, but sighed and gave her an anxious smile, then patted her on the shoulder and disappeared into the house.

She reclaimed her seat on the wall. "So, how much do you know about what happened?"

"Not much." Astalor started to speak, hesitated. "Only that he threatened to assault you."

"It's not the word I would use, but yes, he did."

"What words did he use, then? What did he _actually_ say? And why did you punch him?" In a small voice, he added, "I'm not trying to cause trouble. I'd just like to understand."

He deserved that much, at least. "You remember how long my hair was, back before granny died?"

He nodded. "It was almost down to your waist."

"And how I used to wear it in braids?"

Another nod.

"And how when granny died, I cut the braids off?" With a pair of kitchen scissors; she could still hear and feel the snicking sound they'd made as she'd cut.

"So you could put them with her on the pyre," he murmured.

"So I could put them with granny, yes." An ancient and now seldom-observed Rohanese tradition; one she'd been hell bent on observing. "Dad's confirmation ceremony was only a month after the funeral, so my hair was still really short."

"Uh huh?"

This would be so much easier with wine. Hell, even with a strong cup of coffee. "Just as dad was giving his oath, Thelden came to stand beside me. Didn't know the man from Beor, had no idea who he was. Can you believe, I actually thought he'd come over to check in on me?" Before he could answer, she raced on. "I'd started crying, you see, thinking about granny too much. I didn't want to ruin dad's big day, so I went to stand at the back of the Hall, stay out of everyone's way. I thought maybe he was coming to ask if I was okay. Offer me a tissue. Something normal like that."

"I guess he didn't."

She shook her head. "He didn't say a single word to me. Just stood there watching the proceedings, like everyone else." Her chest felt tight, her heart started to race. "Then, he leaned over to tell me he didn't like that I'd cut off my braids." The blood was rushing and thumping in her ears now. "Because it meant he wouldn't have anything to pull on when he held me down and fucked me."

Astalor was ashen-faced. "Is that when you punched him?"

"Not then, no. I was so shocked, I didn't know what to do. He said it so quietly, I actually thought I'd misheard him. And I was only eighteen, and nobody else heard him say it, and it was the Golden Hall, and I thought he was someone important, and the King was up at the front of the room, saying all these serious things, and it was this really big moment for dad, and I just wanted granny to not be dead, or for grandpa to be there, and…" she broke off, drawing a half-sobbing breath, feeling faint, still struggling after all these years to put her maelstrom of feelings about the occasion into words.

"When _did_ you punch him, then?"

"About a minute later, after he said something really bad about gran." She held up a hand. "And I'm not going to tell you what he said, so please don't ask," she pleaded. Thelden's first comment had been toxic enough—she wasn't sure she could actually repeat the second one without losing her lunch.

"I had no idea," Astalor murmured. "I mean, I knew he'd said something bad, but that's _appalling_."

She showed a wan smile. "It's not the kind of thing people talk about over dinner." Not in their house at least.

He sighed, looked at the ground and kicked another pebble. The path was really taking a thrashing today. "I'm sorry," he said, so softly she almost didn't hear him.

"For what?"

"For misjudging what happened that day. For thinking it was all your fault. I always thought it was you just being a pain in the arse, trying to ruin an important occasion."

She smirked. "I'm sure you not the only one who saw it that way." Rightly or wrongly, that punch, and the political fallout it had generated, had gotten her labelled as a troublemaker.

"What kind of sick _arsehole_ even says that?" Astalor asked. "To an eighteen year old girl he doesn't know? When he's standing in the same room as the King?"

"A Camelor," she instantly said.

"They can't _all_ be that bad, surely?"

She sighed. "Not all of them, no." People had judged her negatively just because of what name she had—she shouldn't do the same thing to others in turn. "Thelden went into rehab later that year, dad thinks he was maybe high on something when it happened, but it's not as if he was a good man who just had a bad day. With or without the drugs, he's bad all the way to the bone. And the Earl's no bed of roses, either. You don't _ever_ want to tangle with him."

Astalor went deadly quiet. "I shouldn't ask his daughter out on a date then?"

The question was so unexpected, it took her a minute to realize who he meant. "Camelor's?"

"Grettel, yes. His older daughter. She's the same age as me."

"You know her?"

He nodded. "She was in some of my classes this year."

"What's she like?" She'd met the elder son a few times, he actually seemed like a half-decent sort.

"She's really nice. Quite shy, funny once you get to know her." His face lit up. "She's into astronomy. And we like the same music and books."

An agreeable, pleasant Camelor; she must take after her mother. "Do you _want_ to ask her out on a date?"

"Not sure. I was thinking about it? But…" he broke off, sighing.

"But you're worried about what people will think," she finished.

"Everyone will think I'm crazy."

Or brave. Or both. "Do you want my honest opinion?"

He nodded.

"I think everyone might be right. Even if she's a really nice person, even if she's nothing like her father or uncle, it might be easier if you just didn't."

"Why?"

"Because her father is one of the meanest, nastiest, vilest arseholes the Hall of Lords has _ever_ produced. And he is never, _ever_ going to like you, because of who your own father is. It's a risk I'm not sure I would be willing to take." Especially not with the speech their dad had just given—another of the Earl's schemes gone to waste, just because a Hamelmark got in the way.

"Her father doesn't even know me. And I'm not dad. Why would he ever want to harm me?"

A sensible point, but she knew it wasn't as easy as that. "Thelden Camelor didn't know me either. Didn't stop him from telling me he wanted to grab me by my hair and rape me. You're a Hamelmark. For the Earl and his brother, that's reason enough."

Astalor fell silent again. "You ever wish dad wasn't an earl?" he eventually said. "That we were just a regular family instead?"

She shook her head. "Wouldn't do any good. He is, and we're not, and that's all there is to it."

"It's just…"

"What?"

"I _really_ like her. Grettel, I mean."

The look in his eyes—was that the same look her dad and Erland had teased her about? The lovey-dovey, sappy expression? As much as it pained her, there was really only one response she could give. "Then ask her out, and if she says 'yes', go on a date with her. Just be _really_ careful, okay? Don't do anything that might anger her father." She raised a warning finger. "Do not, under _any_ circumstances, ever let him catch the two of you having sex in his house. What he would do to you for that, we would probably never find your body."

"You really think he would hurt me?"

"I do, yes," she said, firmly. "And not necessarily because you've done anything wrong. Just because he can. Because he's a scorpion."

Astalor frowned. "Not sure I follow."

"You know the story about the frog and the scorpion?" His blank look told her no, he didn't; time for a quick parable lesson. "A scorpion needs to get across a river, so it asks a frog to carry him on its back. The frog refuses, because it thinks the scorpion will sting him. The scorpion points out that if it stings the frog, they would both drown. So, the frog agrees to help. Halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog. The dying frog asks the scorpion why it stung, because now it's going to die as well. The scorpion replies, 'I couldn't help it, it's just my nature.'"

"You think Grettel's father is mean to people because it's in his nature?"

"Absolutely." And she would love to know what Grettel had to say on the matter. Living in the Camelor house, the girl must have seen and heard stuff that would make Solwen's hair turn white.

Astalor sighed. "Maybe I should think this through some more."

"That never does any harm."

"I couldn't do anything right now, anyway. Grettel's gone to stay with her mum for the summer, won't be back in Edoras until September."

No immediate threat of inter-familial warfare, then. And Astalor had the attention span of a gnat—by September he could be lovey-dovey about someone else. "See how you feel when she's back."

"You won't tell mum and dad, will you?"

It was so ironic, she actually laughed. "Oh, Asta, your first proper secret. You're definitely in the club now."

He grinned. "I never thought about it like that." Sighing, his grin fell away. "But we seem to have an awful lot of them. Secrets, I mean."

She shrugged. "We're a Landed family. Secrets are our bread and butter."

"Can I ask another question? About what happened that day in the Hall?"

"If you must."

"Why were you the one who got punished? You were eighteen, and a grown man threatened to rape you. Why did you end up with the Ban?"

Why indeed? She still wasn't sure she understood that part herself. She should ask Eomer sometime, see what he had to say on the matter. He might not know, but he could probably access his late uncle's files. "Various reasons. Technically, the Ban was imposed because I physically assaulted someone in the King's presence, and refused to apologize for it. And to be fair, what I did to Thelden, if I'd done that to a random stranger out in the street, the police would have charged me with ABH."

"But he provoked you."

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. You don't get to break people's faces just because they say something really unpleasant. And I doubt I could have claimed self defense. Not when he made no move to actually harm me. If he'd pressed charges, I would have been in serious trouble."

"Why do you think he didn't?"

"He didn't want the fuss. Landed, remember? We're not quite as concerned with our public reputations as the Gondorian High Families are, but we still don't like to ruffle feathers. If it had become public, it would have put a lot of focus on his actions as well. He probably decided he didn't need the attention." Or, more likely, his older brother had decided for him.

He sighed. "I don't know. It still sounds like a bullshit reason to me."

"Sometimes, that's just how life is."

"And what about the King?" he asked. "Why didn't he punish Thelden as well? What kind of man would just let that happen and not do anything about it?"

"He'd just buried his only child." And buried himself in debilitating grief in the process. "And I think he was in the early stages of the health problems that eventually killed him. And the Camelor brothers had a lot of influence at the Palace, they were good friends with the King's right-hand man. Guy named Grima." Just saying his name made her need a shower. "Real piece of work."

"Was he the greasy one with the pale skin?"

She nodded. "The one with the oiled-back hair, yes." Which had made him look like a snake in a three piece suit. "He carried out the investigation"—she made quote marks with her fingers—"told the King nobody could back up my claim, persuaded him I was in the wrong. So, I got the Ban, Thelden Camelor got nothing."

"That sucks."

"It did at the time. But it's all in the past now. King Theoden is dead, my Ban is lifted, Thelden Camelor's going to jail for other crimes."

"I'm glad King Eomer lifted your Ban."

"So am I."

"You should find a way to thank him."

Thinking about what they'd done on that desk, she was quite sure she already had…


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer prepares for dinner. Solwen gives Brendal a quick overview on the Sacred Art of Lying...

Eomer went to his sitting room mirror, gently pulling the points of his tie, trying to straighten the stupid thing out.

He worked it into the perfect position, held it for a steadying second and cautiously released the tips; one side immediately started to sag.

Fuck these fucking stupid-ass ties all the way to dress code fuck. And stupid-ass cummerbunds as well. Oh, and while they were at it, dress shirts, double cuffs, turndown collars, shirt studs, shiny shoes and jetted fucking pockets as well.

What useless fucking piece of fuck had put this stupid dress code together? Whoever it was, they deserved to be killed. If working time machines existed, Eomer would use one right now, take care of the useless fucking fucker himself. Strangle him to death with a tie, or smother him with a cummerbund, maybe.

What an utterly ridiculous fuss, just for a Solstice dinner event. He loved the Elgolls, really, he did—Elfhelm was the closest thing he would ever have to a brother—but just for once, could they not do something more casual instead? Hold a barbecue out on the terrace, with bottles of beer in tubs of ice and all of the guests in t-shirts and jeans?

Even a semi-formal code would do; he could wear a regular suit and tie just fine. Anything but this strangling, stupid piece of shit thing.

Colwenna returned from her trip to the closet, a folded handkerchief in one hand, a wrapped blue cornflower in the other.

"Button holes, really?" he said, nodding at the flower. "Isn't that a little bit much?"

She put the handkerchief down to poke the wrapped stem of the flower through the slot on his left lapel, using the built-in loop to fasten it at the other side. "It's a black tie dinner with the Elgolls. If you turn up without a button-hole, you'll be the subject of scurrilous gossip for weeks." She picked up the handkerchief—ironed within an inch of its life—and carefully placed it in his breast pocket. "There," she said, smiling as she stepped back. "Perfect."

He pulled his shirt away from his neck, trying to create some room to breathe. "Whenever I wear one of these, I always understand how a yoked oxen feels. Bloody torture device. Wouldn't mind killing whichever arsehole it was who decided they were a good idea." He pulled at his collar again, feeling it give a little.

Scowling, she slapped his hand away. "If you can't breathe, it's either because you're not the collar size you think you are, or because you made the knot too tight." She yanked at one of the thistle head ends, pulling the tie completely apart, then, with a deftness Eomer was sure he would never master no matter how much he tried, retied it into a perfect, level, beautiful bow that made his original effort look as if a blind horse had done it. "There," she said. "How does that feel?"

He wiggled his neck. "Better." But still not as nice as wearing a regular tie. Or, even better, no tie at all.

"The car's ready. Her Royal Highness is waiting downstairs."

But of course she was. This was the only house in the kingdom where the women never kept the men waiting. "What about the gifts?" he said.

"Already in the car."

"And what are we taking with us this year?"

"Some custom, luxury tea blends in a gift set for the Countess, a ninety-eight Jossilung for the Earl."

A Jossilung, Bema; talk about dialling it all the way up to eleven? But this was the Elgolls—wine in a box and gas station flowers just wouldn't cut it tonight.

And speaking of flowers. "I forgot to mention yesterday, Lady Solwen got the shadow lilies," he said.

"And did she like them?"

"She was absolutely delighted with them. Said they're the prettiest flowers she's ever received." Or words to that effect.

Satisfied, Colwenna beamed. "I'm glad to hear it."

"You have any plans for tonight?" he said as he grabbed various things to shove in his pockets. "Or are you having a quiet night in?"

"Seonell's coming over at seven, we're going to have dinner together," she said. "She's bringing the starter and the dessert, I'm providing the main and the drinks."

"That'll be nice."

"I have a lovely Torrosan White in the fridge, so it certainly will."

Not quite as posh as a Jossilung, but still a bloody good wine. "You didn't go out and buy it, did you?"

"Why do you ask?"

He noticed she hadn't answered his question. "It's just, you know I wouldn't mind if you took something from the cellar."

"You're very kind, but the cellar doesn't have the varietal I was after."

"Really?"

"Shocking, I know."

Sighing, he smoothed down his shirt and buttoned his jacket. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I'm quite jealous of your plans."

"The Elgolls will be expecting you."

"I know they will. And it'll be a lovely night, it always is, it'll just be a little bit exhausting as well." He scanned around for his phone, finding it on the seat by the door. "It wouldn't be so bad if I could persuade Tommen to take it easy. When we do the whole formal thing, I always feel like I'm on show for the night." Especially when the Earl insisted Eomer take the seat at the head of the table. As he probably would tonight—that 'discussion' was still to come.

"It could be worse," Colwenna said, grabbing a lint brush from a drawer.

"Oh?"

She gestured for him to turn around, started rolling the back of his jacket. "If you think _your_ Solstice Dinner is going to be a little bit stressful, spare a thought for Brendal."

"Why? Where's he going?"

In an almost-conspirative whisper, she said, "To the Earl of Hamelmark's house."

"Sorry?"

"The Earl invited him to dinner."

"Why on earth did he do that?" Quickly, Eomer added, "Not that there's anything wrong with Brendal, of course. I'm sure he'll be a perfectly pleasant guest." As long as he didn't wear his mechanic's overalls at the table. Although, the Hamelmarks might not care if he did.

"The Earl's a distant cousin of Brendal's, remember? You told me a while ago, Brendal reminded me himself."

"Of course, yes. I'd forgotten that." Third cousin, if he recalled correctly. But something still didn't add up. "Okay, but why was Brendal even telling you this?" Except to round Solwen up for their dates, Colwenna never went to the garage level. That he knew of, at least.

"He came to my office to ask me for help. He's never been to an earl's house for dinner before. He needed some advice on what to take as a gift."

And nobody in the Palace was better at gift advice than Colwenna. "Let me guess, chocolates and wine."

She ran the roller down his left arm. "Always an easy solution."

"Did you recommend a wine?"

"As it happens, yes, I did."

"And what wine did you tell him to buy?"

Her tone turned a little bit tense. "Why does that matter?"

He shrugged. "Just curious, that's all."

A few more seconds of vigorous rolling, then, "A 2012 Rinkastel Bright."

A very nice choice. But now, he was sure he understood why she'd been a little reluctant to answer. "Colwenna," he said, biting down on a grin. "Did you do something naughty?"

The rolling stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

"We have rather a lot of Rinkastel Bright in the cellar. I know that for a fact, because it's one of my favourite wines."

"I bring it up for you when you drink it. I know fine well it's one of your favourite wines," she said tartly.

"Did you give a bottle to Brendal?"

She didn't immediately answer, but moved to roll his right arm instead. "Would it be a terrible thing if I had?" she asked in the most cautious of tones.

"Technically, that's stealing."

"Yes, and technically, it's not illegal to own and fire a cannon, but I'm not running out to buy one for my balcony, am I?"

Sometimes, she said the strangest of things. "Fenbrand would be outraged, you know."

"Fenbrand can shove his outrage up his puckered white arse."

And sometimes, the crudest of things as well; her car mechanic's daughter was showing. "By the way, did you know he went home sick yesterday?"

"Who, Fenbrand?" she asked.

He nodded. "I went looking for him just after four, needed his help with something. Connet was the only one there, he told me Fenbrand had gone home around ten."

"Did you get the help you needed?" she asked.

What did it say, that she hadn't asked after Fenbrand's health? There must be more tension between the two of them than he'd realized. "As it happens, I didn't, no. I was looking for a document I knew Fenbrand would have, but it was locked away, and Connet didn't have the keys." A point of failure he intended to address with Fenbrand on Monday, in case this ever happened again.

"What was the document?" she said, going to put the lint brush away.

"The final guest list for the oath banquet."

"Is there a problem with it?"

"Only in the sense I haven't seen it yet."

Her cautious tone came out again. "Any reason you need to see it?"

"No particular reason, no." Aragorn hadn't explained that part, so he couldn't tell her what he himself didn't know. "Just something I wanted to check."

She bustled around the room, clearing some things away. "If I were you, I'd be careful about getting involved. Harstan, Fenbrand and your sister have been dealing with it so far. They're all quite fussy about how things get done. Don't go stepping on anyone's toes."

"Is that your polite way of telling me to mind my own business?"

Her smile was strangely tense. "A little bit, yes."

Except, Aragorn had specifically told him _not_ to mind his own business. And Aragorn wasn't given to flights of fancy or paranoia—if he thought something about the guest list was wrong, then something about the guest list was wrong. But no point in explaining that to Colwenna; she hadn't been involved in the banquet prep work at all, so she wouldn't know the guest list from Bema. He could ask Eowyn instead—she must surely have a copy—but she would probably turn tetchy on him, make all kinds of passive-aggressive comments about him finally getting involved. Or just outright aggressive-aggressive comments, more likely.

He would wait until Monday. Fenbrand should be back at work then. And Harstan, if push came to shove. One of them should be able to find the bloody document for him…

She followed Eomer down to the door, bit her lip and patiently listened while he and his sister bitched back and forth about everything from how long it had taken him to get ready to what route the driver should take to who would present what gift to whom, saw the two of them into their car and watched the convoy drive away.

As soon as the trailing outrider was gone, she hurried back to her office. Only two days since the petition had been voted down, and the shit was already hitting the fan all over again. They'd planned to hold off telling the King about the 'hiccup' with the guest list until after the Midsummer party, but that wasn't going to be possible now. Eomer knew something was wrong, and for all that he wasn't quite as tenacious as his sister, once he got an idea in his head, it was awfully difficult to divert him. He'd accepted not being able to see the guest list on Friday because of circumstances beyond his control. There was no way he would accept not being able to see it on Monday as well.

She would talk to Eowyn tomorrow. They could figure out an approach together.

The knock at the door was Seonell. "Everything still okay for tonight?" she said. "No last-minute problems rearing their head?"

There was, but not the kind of problem Seonell could fix. "Everything's fine," Colwenna said. "I'm just going to head upstairs to close out His Majesty's rooms, I'll head straight home after that." Not that she had far to go—just to the other side of the Palace complex. She checked her watch. "Give me twenty, twenty-five minutes?"

Smiling, Seonell nodded. "Works for me. I'll head to my place, change, see you at yours?"

"Absolutely. See you there and then."

It occurred to her, on the way up to the King's rooms, she might need to go back to the cellars, take the King up on his offer of free wine after all.

If this 'discussion' on Monday went as badly as she expected it to, it might be the last chance she got…

The bus lurching to the left snapped Brendal out of his snooze.

He blinked to focus, peered out to check where he was—moving into the roundabout at the end of Queen Morwen Drive. He hadn't missed his stop, then. Good. Not that it would be a concern if he had—he would just wait for the bus to circle the Hill and get off on the way down instead. But that would take another ten minutes, and he didn't want to keep Solwen waiting.

The driver took the second exit, passing through the massive burnished steel gates that marked the entrance to the Hill. He waited until the bus had passed the stop at the fancy pub, then reached up to yank the cord. As the bus approached the next stop, he saw Solwen waiting on the bench, reading something on her phone.

She looked up as he stepped out the door, showing him a welcoming smile. "Hey, good to see you," she said, putting her phone in her cardigan pocket. "You made really good time."

"Traffic was pretty good. Nowhere near as bad as rush hour during the week." She stood up, dusting off the back of her dress—the one she'd worn on her first date with the King, if he recalled correctly. "You look really nice," he said. He thought about saying something more, decided to leave it at that. Given who her grandfather, father and boyfriend were, best not to say anything that could be misconstrued later.

"Thank you." She gestured at him. "You look really nice, too."

"Is this okay?" he asked, looking down at his nice shirt and slacks. "I don't own a lot of smart clothes, I wasn't sure if this would be too much, or not enough."

"It's perfect. Just smart enough, but not overdone." She gestured at the bags in his hands. "Are those gifts?" she asked.

"This one is," he said, holding up the bag with the wine. "For your dad. I hope he likes it." He set it down on the bench, her hand dove inside to pull the wine out.

"A 2012 Rinkastel Bright?" Brows raised, she let out an appreciative whistle. "Brendal, I'm impressed."

"Is it good enough?"

She put the wine back. "Absolutely."

Relief flooded through him; thank you, Colwenna. He held up one of the other two bags. "These are chocolates for your step mum. Trewer & Trevenick. I hope that's okay."

"Brendal, that's _more_ than okay, she'll love them, I promise." She gave him a reproving look. "I hope you didn't spend too much."

"It's fine. I bought the chocolates, but the wine, well, let's just say, it came to me at very low cost."

"How was that?"

He winked and tapped the side of his nose. "Top secret. Can't tell you. Very hush hush."

"Did you steal it from someone?" she asked with mischief in her eyes. "Not that I'd care if you did. As long as you stole it from someone I wouldn't approve of."

That was some fucked up Landed logic right there. Or was it Marcher logic? He wasn't quite sure. "I didn't steal it, no. It came to me by entirely legal means."

"Fair enough." She pointed at the third bag. "What's that?"

"This is for you," he said, handing it to her.

The reproving look came out again. "Brendal, you don't need to buy me gifts."

Tartly, he said, "Bloody good thing I didn't, then, isn't it?" As she peered in the bag, he added, "It's from Colwenna. She asked me to bring it to you. She said there's a note inside."

Frowning, Solwen reached into the bag to draw a corner of the item out. It looked like a shirt; whether a man's or a woman's he couldn't be sure. She reached in again, searching until she found the note. As she read it, her frown turned into a girlish giggle.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Still grinning, she waved him away. "A private matter. Something between me and the King."

And that was as much as he wanted to know…

He gestured to the road up ahead—the right branch was the road to her house. "I'm ready when you are." He reclaimed the chocolates and wine, she kept the bag with the shirt.

"So," she said as they started to stroll. Not _too_ fast; they wanted to have enough time. "About tonight."

"You said you were going to give me some pointers about how to not blow your cover story."

"I can't teach you everything about how to lie well, but I can teach you some of the basic rules. Stick to those, and you'll manage just fine."

Lessons on lying, Bema. It would be lessons on poisoning next. "Go for it."

"Rule number one," she announced. "Tell a lie that's based on some kind of truth. Then, it's easier to remember, and the details won't change if you have to retell it."

Which sounded simple in theory. "Give me an example," he said.

"Okay, well, let's say someone asks you what I wore on our first date. That would actually be the Tuesday night I went to the Palace to have drinks with the King."

"You wore a dress. That one," he said, pointing to what she was wearing. "I remember the colour." He couldn't recall if the shoes were the same. Or the cardigan. But he'd definitely seen the dress before.

She nodded. "The dress detail is completely true, so, no matter how many times someone asks you about it, you'll always get it right, because it's based on an authentic memory, and not something you had to make up. I _did_ wear this dress on the first date, it just wasn't a first date with you."

"I think that makes sense."

"Good." She fell silent for a few moments, thinking. "For rule number two, I'm going to give you a practical demonstration." She ground to a halt, hands on hips, looking right at him. "What time did you get into work this morning?" she said.

Bema, what a question, right out of the blue. "I don't remember exactly. Just after eight, I think?"

"And what makes you think that?"

He racked his brain, dragging up the supporting data. "I left the house at the usual time, don't recall the traffic being any worse than normal, so I would have arrived at the usual time as well. And Wulf was already there, and he always comes in just before eight. Oh, and the mail van was at the service door by the inner gate. They're really punctual, they always come around eight."

"Okay, so, when I asked you the _first_ question, why didn't you tell me what you told me when I asked you the _second_ question?"

He shrugged. "Didn't think I needed to. You only wanted to know when I got into work."

She snapped her fingers. "And that's rule number two in a nutshell. When you lie, keep it as simple as you can. Because real answers tend to be simple. When you provide too much detail, it's a dead giveaway that you're either overthinking, or making stuff up. Which tells people you're not being honest, or at the very least, you have something to hide."

A small thing, but it made sense. And it made him think of something else. "Does that apply for when people call in sick as well?"

She nodded. "The longer the explanation, the more likely it is they're lying. If you want to be really convincing, keep it short and to the point."

He would remember that for the next time he had a bad case of the half-litre flu.

They started walking again. "Rule number three's similar," she said. "Also best explained with a demonstration. What were you doing at seven o'clock last Friday night?"

"I've no fucking idea," was his reflex response. She might as well ask him how many flowers there were in Hornburg Park. He thought about it a little more. Had he done anything special last Friday? Not that he could recall. As far as he knew, it had just been another bog-standard day. "I was probably at home, having a beer and watching something crap on television."

"What if I was a cop, coming to tell you someone had been murdered last Friday night, and you were the prime suspect? What would you do then?"

"I'd try to account for where I was as much as I could."

"Why?"

"Because I'd be scared. I'd want to prove I was safe at home when the murder happened, so they knew I'd done nothing wrong."

She made trigger fingers at him. "And there's rule number three. Lying causes the same stress fear reaction, so your natural instinct will be to over-explain. Remember what you said to me when I asked the initial question. You told me you had no idea, and that's a perfectly acceptable answer in its own right. Never be scared to say you don't know, and to not say anything else."

"I can do that."

"Sometimes, saying you don't remember is an even better response." She snickered. "Especially when you're a man."

He stopped to glare. "The fuck does that mean?"

"All of you can't remember shit at the best of times. The things I've heard some men admit to, I'm surprised any of you manage to put your trousers on in the morning."

He remembered what Colwenna had said—about how the King had searched for a pair of sunglasses when they were stuck on his head. And he'd had to put an app on his own phone to help him find it after he'd put it down. "I'm willing to admit, you might have a point."

"Not knowing and not remembering are two of your best tactics," she said as they started walking again. "What's Solwen's favourite wine? Sorry, I don't remember. What did she study at school? Sorry, I don't know, we haven't talked about that."

"I think, if anything comes up, ignorance will be my go-to solution." It seemed less evil than outright lying. And he wasn't the kind of man who considered saying 'I don't know' to be some kind of personal failing.

"It's the one I use when I can. Unfortunately, I can't use it a lot with my dad. He'll let me get away with not remembering, but not so much with not knowing."

"So, what do you do with him?"

"I usually tell him an out-and-out lie."

"Isn't that more dangerous?"

She nodded. "And that's the problem. I have to think on my feet, stay one step ahead, because I know he's thinking through what I've said, mentally putting all the pieces together, looking for gaps in the story."

Bema, was he her father, or a spy movie super villain? "Does it work?"

"Depends on what I'm lying about." They waited for a car to pass, crossed to the other side of the road. "Sometimes, he doesn't know enough about the subject to trip me up. Sometimes, he's already ten steps ahead, and when I get to the end, he backs me into a corner and hands me my arse on a platter."

That sounded a little alarming. "He's, um, he's not _mean_ about it, though, is he? When he catches you out?" How to phrase it. "Like, he doesn't _hurt_ you, does he?"

She let out a laugh. "Bema, never, no. It's just a stupid game we play. I think most of the time, he finds it funny. And I don't lie to hide wrongdoing. It's usually just because I don't want to tell him what I'm doing."

"Like the fact you're dating the King."

"Exactly."

"Is there anyone you can't lie to?"

She let out a sigh. "Inconveniently, it seems I can't really lie to the King. The few times I've tried, just about silly things, you understand, never anything important, he's been able to call me out on it."

"Maybe that's a good thing."

"The only other person I couldn't lie to at all was my gran. She could see through me so well, I might as well have been made of glass." Matter-of-fact, she added, "But I think that's because she's the one who taught me to lie."

"She's the one who... okay, sorry, _what_?"

Solwen grinned. "My granny's the one who taught me to lie. She taught all of us to lie, including my dad. She considered knowing how and when to lie well to be an integral part of our political education." They stepped aside to let a kid on a bike cycle past. "Be glad I'm only giving you some basic tips. If we had longer, I'd be teaching you all the stuff about baselines and counter-attacks as well."

"That's some _seriously_ fucked up shit."

"All part of the service when you're a Hamelmark, Brendal," she said, almost proud. "Fucked up shit's our stock in trade."

"What else did she teach you?" he asked, worrying that thought about poisons might not have been too far off the mark.

"All the usual manners and etiquette crap. But a bunch of really fun stuff as well. How to ride a motorbike, obviously. How to throw a knife. How to throw an axe." She giggled. "Bema, that one was fun. How to pick a lock. How to siphon petrol out of a car. How to track animals in the woods, although I've forgotten most of that now. How to read Ranger Code."

"The fuck did she teach you all that for?"

"To be honest, I've no idea. It might just have been something she did to keep us busy." She snickered. "The lockpicking one, I've actually used."

He absolutely didn't want to know where. Or why. Or how. Or what for. "You Landed people are weird."

"Oh, Brendal, you don't know the half of it." Her eyes lit up. "And that reminds me, rule number four."

"You said there would only be three."

"Aye, but you're having dinner at an earl's house, so this one's really useful. It doesn't work quite so well on you regular folk."

He sighed. "Go on, then."

"It's what I call the offensive defense, where you either imply our outright state the thing being discussed is a personal matter, or something you're not comfortable talking about, or it's not appropriate for whatever the occasion is, or something like that. You have to judge the mood correctly, but it's a _great_ technique to use on the Landed, because there's nothing more likely to shut them down than making them think they've been rude. _Huge_ no-no for them. They'll change the subject faster than greased weasel shit off a hot shovel."

"Another one of your stupid etiquette things."

She paused briefly, pulling a frown. "Sorry?"

"I told Colwenna I was coming here tonight, asked her for some 'how to' advice. She gave me a basic review of some of the Landed etiquette rules. So, I would know what to expect at dinner."

Her grin came out again. "Did she tell you how to eat peas?"

Eating peas the proper way was obviously a huge concern for the Landed, then. Not anything important, like taxes or health care or crime. "She said the easiest option was to either not eat them, or to wait and see what everyone else does."

"Good advice. And just so you know, no peas on the menu tonight."

"Any asparagus?"

She let out a laugh. "No asparagus either, no. No problem foods at all, I promise. And even if we were serving something tricky, we'd never judge you for not knowing the etiquette stuff. Roddig and Darion won't know most of it either. They'd just eat their peas with their spoon, not give a shit what anyone thought."

"So, we won't pass the food to the right?"

She shook her head. "We just hand the dishes around wherever they're needed." She leaned over to whisper, "Occasionally, with things like dinner rolls, we might even throw them to each other."

That sounded just like being at his parents. "Now, I'm almost disappointed."

"If you want us to go all frou-frou on you, we can. Just because we don't usually do it, doesn't mean we don't know how. But I don't think you would enjoy it." She wrinkled her nose. "Plus, it takes ages to serve all the food."

"Colwenna told me this etiquette stuff's not so much about being polite as it is about having a system that keeps the little people out."

"Smart woman. She's exactly right."

"Isn't that a little bit, you know…"

"Pompous? Snobbish? Stuck up?" She nodded. "But that's the whole point. There's nothing some Landed people like more than closing ranks to look down on regular people. And if you think the _dinner_ rules are bad, you should see what the speaking rules are like."

"You mean accents and stuff?"

"That, plus what words you use. Do you call it a toilet or a lavatory? Do you say cloth or material? Is it a sofa, a settee or a couch? Is it a pudding, a dessert or a sweet? Do you say 'nice to meet you' or 'how do you do'?"

"Please tell me you're kidding." This was all getting to be a little too much. She would be telling him there was a right and wrong way to have sex next.

She heaved a sigh. "I wish I was."

"Okay, you're not just weird. You're all absolutely fucking _nuts_."

She tutted at him. "Careful, Brendal. You're sounding a little bit classist there."

"Oh, just fuck off, please," he said. "Or whatever the posh version of telling someone to fuck of is. Go fornicate with oneself, or something."

"We still just tell people to fuck off, so you're good." She frowned. "Although, I think the Earl of Hereoch once asked someone to remove themselves from his presence, which _might_ be a posh way to say it?" She shrugged. "You'd have to ask him, I'm not really sure."

"Question for you."

"Shoot."

"You said some Landed folk love doing this snobbery stuff."

"Absolutely."

"Who?"

She pursed her lips, thinking his question through. "Definitely the Hereochs. Not so much the Earl himself, but the Countess is just the worst. She once jokingly"—she made quote marks with her fingers—"threatened to disinherit a daughter for dating a non-Landed guy, even though he was one of the best surgeons in the country. And the Kemeters have a bad reputation for it as well. But they're quite far down the pecking order, they're only thirty-eighth, so I think it's a chip on the shoulder thing for them. They do it to make themselves feel important."

"Pecking order?"

"The official order of precedence. It's based on the age of the earldom. The older the title, the higher up the order you are."

"Where's your dad?"

"Number ten."

Out of a hundred-and-twenty-something. "That's quite high."

"I suppose so, yes. But it's just a position. Other than at formal occasions, it doesn't really matter that much."

"What about the Elgolls?" he said. "Where are they on the list?"

She stopped dead, giving him a piercing look. "Why on earth are you asking that?"

"The King's going to the Elgolls for dinner tonight. And Lord Elfhelm's one of the few other Landed people I've met. Just curious."

The tension in her shoulders relaxed. "Of course, yes, sorry, I forgot Eomer mentioned that." She picked up her pace again. "The Elgolls are second. Only the Darkfald earldom is older. But if you rank us all by money instead, the Elgolls are number one by a _very_ long way."

"They're rich, then?" Which he'd always suspected from the clothes Lord Elfhelm wore—always the best of the best.

"Absolutely rolling in it," she said. "We're so poor in comparison, we might as well be homeless bums."

And the Hamelmarks obviously weren't hurting for money. "And are they mean to the little people?"

"To be honest, I have no idea. I mean, I've heard about how proper they are, they're not the leaders of the society clique for nothing. But they don't strike me as the mean type. Elfhelm certainly isn't." She made a face. "But his sister, Bema, she's a real piece of work. Five minutes after I met her, I wanted to club her to death with my shoe."

"I wouldn't imagine the King would be friends with people who were mean."

"Never say never."

"You seemed a bit shocked when I mentioned the Elgolls."

"Yeah," she said, lips curling in a smile. "About that."

"Oh, Gods. What now?"

She waved him away. "Nothing you need to worry about. But, um, did I ever mention my older brother likes guys?"

"I don't think so." He shrugged. "Not that it matters."

"Yes, except he's dating Elfhelm."

"Sorry?"

"They hooked up on Thursday night."

And by 'hooked up' she probably meant they'd balled each other's brains out. "Good for them."

"It's just, it's a little complication I hadn't planned on. I'll probably need to tell Elfhelm about our whole 'fake dating' cover story—"

He groaned, seeing where this was going. "Which means you'll need to tell the King as well."

"And sooner, rather than later." Her face brightened. "But it means all five of us will know the full truth. I won't be lying to anyone anymore."

She had the strangest definition of 'anyone' he'd _ever_ seen. "Except your dad. And your stepmother. And your other brother. Oh, and _everyone else on the whole fucking planet_."

"It'll just for a few weeks," she pleaded. "It won't be an ongoing thing, I promise."

"It's not the length of time that bothers me. It's the telling my boss thing I'm worried about. He's either going to fire me, or tease me to the point where I decide to quit just to have some peace."

A car on the road beeped as it passed; Solwen gave the driver a wave. "He won't fire you. I actually think you should ask for a raise. You've been very loyal. And very discreet."

"Right, yes, I can just see how well that would go over."

"Oh, and speaking of things going over well, you bought me flowers."

"Sorry?"

"Eomer sent me flowers yesterday. So, of course, everyone thinks they came from you."

"What kind of flowers?"

"Shadow lilies. Very pretty. And before you ask, they're reasonably expensive, but not so much you'd have to rob a bank to buy them, so we're all covered there. My stepmother was _very_ impressed. She thinks you have excellent taste. They're on the sideboard in the living room, everyone's going to mention them, so just be ready for that." She winked at him. "Get your new lying skills ready."

The mere thought was making him sweat. "I think I'll go with the 'say as little as possible' option."

"Good choice. Everyone will just assume you're being modest."

He was about to ask her why the King had sent her flowers, until he thought about why _he_ would send a woman flowers, and decided to keep his question to himself. Some things, he just didn't need to know.

Around the curve, the Hamelmark house came into view. They were on the final stretch, now. If there was anything else they needed to cover, this was the time to do it.

"Is there anything else?" he said. "Anything I _absolutely_ need to know?"

"There's plenty you need to know. But nothing I can tell you in the next two minutes. So, your best defense is to remember the advice I just gave you. And try to relax. It's not going to be anywhere near as much of a problem as you think it is. There's going to be nine people at the table, and this is your first time being invited for dinner, which sort of makes you the guest of honour. Nobody's going to interrogate you. And just remember, Erland knows the truth as well. If something happens when I'm not around, he'll step in."

They arrived at the top of the drive. No twitching curtains at the nosy neighbour's house this time. "Ready?" she asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," he said, wondering, for the fiftieth time, what the _hell_ he'd gotten himself into…


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A list of all characters who have appeared in the story so far. I will continue to add to it as needed. Dates and ages may not match to the canon source material - I have massaged them to fit my needs :)
> 
> Let me know if you see any inconsistencies e.g. ages that don't match up to what I've stated in the story. I've tried to keep track of everything, but it's a lot of data :)

The following characters are alive and well.

**THE EORLS**

Eomer of Rohan (34m) - main male character, King of Rohan, unmarried

Eowyn of Rohan (30f) - Eomer's younger sister, Princess Royal of Rohan, unmarried

Morwen of Rohan (104f) - Eomer's maternal grandmother, Dowager Queen of Rohan, widowed, originally from Lossarnach in Gondor

Thengwen of Rohan (82f) - Eomer's maternal aunt, widowed, lost her succession rights on marriage

Morghild of Rohan (76f) - Eomer's maternal aunt, the Dowager Princess of Erech, widowed, lost her succession rights on marriage

Eorwena of Rohan (70f) - Eomer's maternal aunt, unmarried, surrendered her succession rights

**THE HAMELMARKS**

Solwen Hamelmark (28f) - main female character, a treasury analyst, unmarried

Duncan Hamelmark (54m) - Solwen's father, the current Earl of Hamelmark

Nediriel Hamelmark (48f) - Solwen's stepmother, the current Countess of Hamelmark, Duncan's third wife, originally from Anfalas in Gondor

Erland Hamelmark (32m) - Solwen's older half-brother, the heir to the earldom, Duncan's son by his first wife, a financial analyst, unmarried

Astalor Hamelmark (22m) - Solwen's younger half-brother, Duncan's son by his third wife, a student, unmarried

Haradoc Giantsbane (82m) - Solwen's paternal grandfather, widowed

Elco Solverson (80m) - Solwen's maternal grandfather, widowed, lives in Dale

**THE ELGOLLS**

Elfhelm Elgoll (34m) - Eomer's best friend, the heir to the earldom, unmarried

Tommen Elgoll (64m) - Elfhelm's father, the current Earl of Elgoll, the 'Father of the Hall'

Aldona Elgoll (56f) - Elfhelm's mother, the current Countess of Elgoll, Dolenis Romengar's younger sister

Cenefer Elgoll (30f) - Elfhelm's younger sister, a barrister, engaged

Liswilla Elgoll (88f) - Tommen's mother, the Dowager Countess of Elgoll, widowed

Brentan Carhart (30m) - Cenefer's fiancé, a barrister, engaged

**THE ROMENGARS**

Elisend Romengar (28f) - Solwen's best friend, an economist, unmarried

Jothren Romengar (62m) - Elisend's father, the current Earl of Romengar

Dolenis Romengar (58f) - Elisend's mother, the current Countess of Romengar, Aldona Elgoll's older sister

Gamulf Romengar (34m) - Elisend's oldest brother, the heir to the earldom

Winnick Romengar (32m) - Elisend's older brother, unmarried

Theonara Romengar (36f) - Gamulf's wife, a former TV presenter

Alienor Romengar (4f) - Gamulf's daughter, the heir to the earldom after Gamulf

Stefon Romengar (0m) - Gamulf's son

Sunling Romengar (68f) - Jothren's oldest sister, married

Olwenna Romengar (65f) - Jothren's older sister, married

**THE DARKFALDS**

Erella Darkfald (52f) - the Current Countess of Darkfald, the Leader of the Hall

Calarion Answorth (58m) - Erella's husband

Pasco Darkfald (23m) - Erella's eldest son, the heir to the earldom, unmarried

Garomer Darkfald (21m) - Erella's second son, unmarried

Amandus Darkfald (19m) - Erella's third son, unmarried

Rickon Darkfald (14m) - Erella's fourth son, unmarried

**THE CAMELORS**

Rogen Camelor (54m) - the current Earl of Camelor

Leowenna Camelor (48f) - Rogen's first wife, divorced

Solmund Camelor (24m) - Rogen's son by his first wife, the heir to the earldom, a trainee psychologist, unmarried

Grettel Camelor (22f) - Rogen's daughter by his first wife, a student, unmarried, one of Astalor's classmates

Seorsa Camelor (36f) - Rogen's second wife, separated, filing for divorce, Eomer's ex-lover

Danrick Camelor (10m) - Rogen's son by his second wife

Helisene Camelor (6f) - Rogen's daughter by his second wife

Thelden Camelor (40m) - Rogen's younger brother, a securities trader, unmarried

Berenilda Camelor (76f) - Rogen's mother, the Dowager Countess of Camelor, widowed

**THE KEVELEOKS**

Leonilla Keveleok (50f) - the current Countess of Keveleok

Osuald Markinswell (54m) - Leonilla's husband

Henris Keveleok (24f) - Leonilla's oldest daughter

Winifrene Keveleok (22f) - Leonilla's second daughter

Nicolesha Keveleok (20f) - Leonilla's third daughter

Jaspin Keveleok (18m) - Leonilla's son, the heir to the earldom

**THE THELANORS**

Mordulf Thelanor (34m) - Eomer's other best friend, the heir to the earldom, unmarried

Sigrene Thelanor (68f) - Mordulf's mother, the current Countess of Thelanor

Erling Rathenow (74m) - Mordulf's father, Sigrene's husband

Andrasha Thelanor (38f) - Mordulf's older sister, married

Rosmin Thelanor (40f) - Mordulf's oldest sister, married

**THE COLAFELLS**

Thenwis Colafell (20f) - Thengwen's granddaughter, a student, unmarried, Eomer's rival for the Crown

Eldwis Colafell (50f) - Thenwis's mother, widowed

Anasha Colafell (16f) - Thenwis's younger sister

**THE HORNEBOLTS**

Emersen Hornebolt (54m)

Godith Hornebolt (54f) - Emersen's wife, Duncan's ex-wife, Erland's mother

Darion Hornebolt (28m) - Emersen's son, Erland's half-brother, musician, unmarried

Roddig Hornebolt (28m) - Emersen's son, Erland's half-brother, musician, unmarried

**THE JORDELANES**

Brendal Jordelane (42m) - Eomer's bike mechanic

Theodrick Jordelane (68m) - Brendal's father

Calantha Jordelane (66m) - Brendal's mother

Ragnill Alistrond (42f) - Brendal's ex-wife

**OTHER PEOPLE IN THE HALL**

Runolf Breakspear (55m) - The Commandant of the Hall

Jonrick Amerwen (54m) - the current Earl of Amerwen, Duncan's best friend

Yennara Amerwen (50f) - the current Countess of Amerwen

Godeline Briotha (51f) - the current Countess of Briotha

Heostan Briotha (55m) - the Countess of Briotha's husband, legally adopted her name

Ramsdell Drevnick (82m) - the current Earl of Drevnick

Torben Hereoch (66m) - the current Earl of Hereoch

Hugoline Kereth (51f) - the current Countess of Kereth

Ansgar Larsbrook (64m) - the current Earl of Larsbrook

Osbert Lindgarn (38m) - the current Earl of Lindgarn, never shows up for work

Joscelin Manarta (59m) - the current Earl of Manarta, convicted of sexual assault on a minor

Abelard Roxbrunde (22m) - the current Earl of Roxbrunde, the Baby of the Hall

Bartelon Strone (48m) - the current Earl of Strone, twice married, serial adulterer

Edmund Sunhold (77m) - the current Earl of Sunhold

Persella Vosburg (72f) - the current Countess of Vosburg

Gamling Trebus (44m) - the current Earl of Trebus

Godfred Yonvell (63m) - the Current Earl of Yonvell, the Custodian of the Hall

**POLITICIANS**

Rowena Harbrand (56f) - The Prime Minister

Holger Selgreve (45m) - The Deputy Prime Minister

Morgene Farradale (58f) - The Foreign Secretary

Stannick Farradale (60m) - The Foreign Secretary's husband

Heowena Farradale (28f) - The Foreign Secretary's daughter, Eomer's dinner date

Sholah Farradale (26f) - The Foreign Secretary's daughter, Elisend's co-worker

**THE SENIOR PALACE STAFF**

Colwenna Wincrane (60f) - Eomer's Household Manager, Princess Theodwyn's best friend, unmarried

Algrin Paxter (50m) - Eomer's Head of Security

Fenbrand Ravensmark (64m) - Eomer's Principal Private Secretary, unmarried

Connet Rokewood (32m) - Fenbrand's deputy, unmarried

Harstan Malafont (57m) - Eomer's Senior Comptroller

Alfrid Connick (58m) - Eomer's Lord Chamberlain

Seonell Yospen (44f) - Eowyn's Principal Private Secretary, married

**KING'S GUARDS**

Fastmer Holcroft (42m) - Captain of the King's Guard

Dernbrand Peverell (38m) - Member of the King's Guard

Dunthel Hargrene (38m) - Member of the King's Guard

Elfwina Marbrack (29f) - Member of the King's Guard

Godhild Norling (32f) - Member of the King's Guard

Guthlaf Cuddon (30m) - Member of the King's Guard

Herseline Goshollow (38f) - Member of the King's Guard (Clan)

Kennet Morsbie (31m) - Member of the King's Guard

Mordoc Darkwind (26m) - Member of the King's Guard (Clan)

Nedris Korven (27f) - Member of the King's Guard

Osrick Pheasey (30m) - Member of the King's Guard

Sorvanna Pennington (29f) - Member of the King's Guard

Vonnal Stonehawk (34m) - Member of the King's Guard (Clan)

**OTHER PEOPLE**

Andriel (33f) - Member of Algrin's security team

Angwen (25f) - Member of Colwenna's Household team

Bregdan (57m) - Eomer's steward

Bronnig (48m) - Member of the Palace legal team

Boremund (47m) - Head driver at the Palace

Bronvell (38f) - Gardener at the Elgoll holding

Danner (41m) - Eomer's main driver

Edrick (28m) - Eomer's backup steward

Fadrell (41m) - Member of Fenbrand's team

Faramon (48m) - Chef at the Elgoll holding

Freddan (49m) - Mechanic at the Palace

Gwinlen (35m) - Member of Fenbrand's team

Halmund (51m) - Eowyn's steward

Hammo (43m) - Driver at the Palace

Hedwin (54f) - Housekeeper to the Hamelmarks

Heredig (28m) - Guard at the Palace main gate

Heredred (44m) - Server at the Rohan Club

Jemmy (53m) - Land manager at the Hamelmark holding

Kenrith (44f) - Member of the Palace legal team

Leofrick (61m) - Footman at the Palace

Lorcas (59m) - Member of the Palace legal team

Mareota (36f) - Member of Fenbrand's team

Narra (26f) - Member of Colwenna's Household team

Othborn (43m) - Head steward at the Elgoll holding

Ranlen (33m) - Member of Algrin's security team

Raviniel (27f) - Member of Colwenna's Household team

Rumon (38m) - Butler at the Elgoll holding

Sorka (34f) - Member of Fenbrand's team

Yelisan (26f) - Driver at the Palace

Wulf (38m) - Mechanic at the Palace

The following characters were already deceased when the story started.

**THE HOUSE OF EORL**

Thengel of Rohan, born 1902, died 1980, King of Rohan 1954-1980

Theoden of Rohan, born 1940, died 2012, King of Rohan 1980-2012

Edhild of Rohan, born 1948, died 1984, Theoden's wife, Theodred's mother, Queen Consort of Rohan 1980-1984

Theodred of Rohan, born 1974, died 2010, Crown Prince of Rohan 1980-2010, unmarried

Theodwyn of Rohan, born 1960, died 1998, Eomer's mother, Countess of Aldburg 1996-1998

Eomund Aldburg, born 1958, died 1998, Eomer's father, Earl of Aldburg 1996-1998

**THE HAMELMARKS**

Kalaster Hamelmark, born 1910, died 1993 aged 83, Earl of Hamelmark 1965-1993

Bethenara Hamelmark, born 1938, died 2010 aged 72, Countess of Hamelmark 1993-2010

Nemeshet Solverson, born 1964, died 1994 aged 30, Duncan's second wife, Solwen's mother

**THE COLAFELLS**

Heredred Colafell, born 1930, died 2012 aged 82, Thengwen's husband, businessman

Thendred Colafell, born 1962, died 2012 aged 50, Heredred and Thengwen's son, Thenwis's father


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elgolls prepare for dinner, Elfhelm has a chat with his dad, Brendall meets the Hamelmarks, Godhild and Fastmer both receive alarming messages, but for very different reasons.

There were twenty-two people in this building right now—where the _hell_ had all of them gone?

Bow tie in hand, Elfhelm strolled from room to empty room. Finally, he found Cenefer in the west parlour, dripping in diamonds and bias-cut silk, making herself a pre-dinner drink with enough voda in it to kill a small horse.

"Any chance you could help me?" he said, holding out the strip of his tie.

She looked him up and down as if he'd just crawled out from under a rock. "That's not black," she said, using her glass to point at his jacket.

"It doesn't have to be." Not according to the dress code experts at Courtland's, at least. "It's allowed to be midnight blue as well."

Her ladylike snort made it clear what she thought of that claim. "I suppose we should just be glad you didn't opt for a white one instead."

A _light-coloured_ dinner jacket? The mere thought made Elfhelm wince. "You know as well as I do, mama and papa would never allow it." He held the tie out again. "Help, please?"

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I don't do silly ties. You'll need to ask somebody else."

"You're a barrister. You wear a silly tie every time you go into court."

"Yes, but it's not _that_ silly tie, is it?" She sipped her drink, using her other hand to wave him away. "You're a grown man. Learn how to tie the damn thing yourself."

There was no point in asking again; she was in one of her quarrelsome moods—the more he asked, the worse she would get. Muttering about how easy only children had it, he went in search of his (more helpful) mother.

She was in the formal dining room, carrying out a last-minute check of the table's fixtures and fittings. He stood at the door, watching as she gradually moved from setting to setting, verifying everything from the spacing of the various knives to the number of curls in the dishes of butter. He waited in silence for her to finish—he knew better than to disturb her before she was done—she would simply give him a motherly glare and start the process all over again. He scanned along the length of the antique sorrow blood wood table, trying to figure out from the settings what might be on the menu or not. No soup spoons tonight; that told him one thing. Only the finest accessories were on show—the fanciest napkins, the most expensive silver cutlery set, the oldest and most elegant china adorned with the Elgoll coat of arms, the most delicate of the Eadom glasses, no doubt soon to be filled with the costliest and rarest of wines. Everything literally looked fit for a King.

She checked the last setting and gave a curt nod. Smiling, she looked his way. "Perfect," she told him. "Not a single item missing or out of place."

"As if there ever would be," he said. "We both know how fussy Othborn is. He probably measures the distance between the settings with a ruler."

"Well, of course he does, dear," she said as if he was a ten-year-old child. "Spacing's an extremely important detail. Not something you should ever guess."

"Well, however he did it, it looks amazing."

"Thank you, dear. Now was there something else you needed?" She sighed as he held out his tie. "Really? Again?"

"This is only the second time this year. It's not as if I'm asking you to tie it for me every night."

Smiling in a way that only a tolerant mother could, she took the strip of silk, threw it around his neck, and with a few deft twists and pulls, tied his bow tie neatly in place. "There," she said. "Now you look as presentable as the table." Frowning, she stepped away, scanning him up and down. "But darling, I have to ask, what colour is that suit?"

Bema, not her as well. "It's midnight blue, mama. Courtland's says it's a perfectly acceptable alternative to black."

"Your father won't like it," she warned. "You know how he feels about all these faddish modern revisions."

Faddish, really. "It's dark blue, mama. Not bright pink. Relax. It's fine." And it wasn't as if the King or the Princess Royal would care. Eomer wouldn't know blue from black if his life depended on it. "And speaking of dad, where on earth is he?" Elfhelm asked, before she decided to send him upstairs to change. "I haven't seen him for hours."

She sighed. "He's in the greenhouse, dear."

"Again?"

"You know he prefers to stay out of the way when we're setting everything up for dinner. Plus, he's feeling a little bit off today. He needed some quiet time again."

Elfhelm checked his watch. "Except, our guests will start to arrive in twenty minutes. At some point, he's going to have to come out."

"You know the rules," she warned. "We leave him be, he comes out when he's good and ready."

"What's he even feeling off about? I mean, you mentioned on Thursday he was worried about the petition, but that's all done and over now. He should be celebrating the win."

"That's what I said. But it didn't go down very well." She moved close to murmur, "Between you and me, I think he's troubled by what your Uncle Jothren did."

Meaning he was embarrassed to even be related to Jothren by marriage. And who could blame him? Jothren had made a mistake of almost monumental proportions—it was going to haunt him for a long time to come. "Should I go and have a chat with him?" Elfhelm offered. "Gently coax him away from his pruning scissors?"

"Would you, please?" she pleaded. "It's just, you're awfully good at the coaxing part. Much better at it than me." She snorted. "And certainly better than your sister."

"Mama, a wrecking ball through the greenhouse roof would do a better job of coaxing than Cennie."

She sighed. "Subtlety's not one of her strong points, is it?"

On that, they were in total agreement—he loved his sister (most of the time), but she was as subtle as a brick to the face. Which reminded him of another problem. Gesturing at the table, he said, "Where are you seating everyone tonight? You're not putting Eomer at the head of the table, are you?"

"Of course we are," she said, showing him a puzzled frown. "This is a formal dinner. Where on earth else would we put him?"

"Mama, I've told you before, Eomer would be perfectly happy to sit in the guest of honour position instead."

"He's not just the guest of honour, dear. He's the _King_. And this is a private residence, so he _always_ sits at the head of the table."

"I know that, but—"

"No buts," she said gently but firmly, raising a manicured finger. "We are _not_ Dunlendings, with their ridiculous, sit anywhere, classless nonsense. This is the Kingdom of Rohan. We do things properly and politely here."

Dunlendings, Bema. It wasn't as if he was asking her to let everyone come to dinner in only their pants. "He doesn't like it when you make a fuss, you know. He'd much rather you just keep it simple."

"I'm quite sure he would. But the monarchy isn't about keeping things simple, dear. It's about respecting our heritage and traditions. He of all people should understand that."

It was an argument he would never win; he didn't know why he even tried. "Okay, so where's Cennie sitting?"

His mother patted a chair halfway down the left side. "Here, between Brentan and Mordulf." She showed a knowing smile. "I remembered your advice, don't worry."

That advice being to put his sister as far away from Eowyn as both distance and precedence rules allowed. Putting them close was always a bad idea—it was like sticking two angry cats in a sack and watching them hiss and growl at each other. Sometimes, it was quite entertaining, but they needed peace and order tonight.

"I'll leave you to finish up here." He moved in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, taking care not to sully her makeup or hair. "Let me go prise dad away from his buds."

Elfhelm knocked on the greenhouse door, waited to be summoned inside. Even he never went into the orchid room without the Earl's explicit permission.

"Come in," his father's voice called out.

He stepped through the door, then through the protective plastic curtain, moving into the greenhouse beyond. The slight humidity hit him first, but the scent of the flowers quickly caught up—a heady miasma of everything from vanilla to cinnamon to chocolate to honey. He caught a whiff of mouldering fruit; the Dulserines were blooming, then. Stinky things; no wonder his mother wouldn't allow them into the house. But at least it wasn't the Shernibeck Bursts and their invidious rotting corpse stench.

His father was at his bench, dressed for dinner apart from his jacket (which was hanging up on a nearby hook), carefully pruning a young Golden Hornolep's spikes. He didn't look up as Elfhelm arrived, but he obviously knew who his visitor was. "Did your mother send me?" he said. He peered at a yellowing spike, neatly trimmed it down at the root. "Or, are you here of your own volition?"

"A bit of both." Jamming his hands in his pockets, Elfhelm leaned against the sink. "I'm here to remind you our guests will start arriving soon, but I also wanted to check in on you."

His father set the pruned orchid aside, collected another, carefully examined the spikes, put his pruning scissors to work again. "Why would you think I'm anything other than completely fine?"

They were going to do this the hard way, then. Great. "For starters, mum says you've been in here a lot this week. And I don't think it's just because the yearlings need to be repotted."

His father let out a sigh. "It's been a rather busy week. And not a week I'd care to go through again in a hurry."

"Anything you want to discuss? Because you know I'm always happy to listen."

His father turned away from the bench, setting his scissors aside. "Nothing in particular. Just the general noise that comes with being in the Hall."

"Is it something to do with Uncle Jothren?" Elfhelm said.

"Jothren," his father muttered, face contorting into a scowl. Sighing again, he shook his head. "Don't ever tell your mother I said this, but sometimes, I'm extremely glad he's only her brother my marriage."

Elfhelm couldn't help but grin. "Not the fizziest bottle in the fridge, is he?"

"He's just…" Another weary sigh. "I don't know what word I would use to describe him right now." He peeled off his protective gloves, flicked them out and laid them neatly at the side of the table. "Your mother called your Aunt Dolenis this morning, Jothren's still in total denial about what happened. Still insisting it was all the Earl of Hamelmark's fault."

"How on _earth_ did he come up with that?"

"He claims Hamelmark set a trap for him," his father explained. "That he tricked him into saying what he did."

"Nobody forced Uncle Jothren to stand up and speak. He could just have stayed in his seat and not said a thing."

"Yes, well. Common sense has never been one of your uncle's strong points, has it?"

That was putting it mildly. "It's not just that, though, is it? This isn't the first time Jothren's put his foot in it. His behaviour's never bothered you this much before."

His father took the freshly-pruned orchids to set them on a nearby shelf. "You were in the gallery on Thursday, yes? You heard both rebuttal speeches?"

"I was, and I did."

"Tell me, then. What did you make of them?"

"Erella was as good as always. She explained her concerns in terms even I could understand, made a couple of well-received jokes, spoke at a good pace, in a good tone, didn't bore anyone to death with details." He shrugged. "I couldn't say a bad thing about it."

"And what about Lord Hamelmark?" His father's tone was more guarded now. "What did you think of _his_ rebuttal?"

He would have to tread more carefully here. Erella Darkfald was a good friend, but Duncan Hamelmark wasn't. Which could potentially make his thing with Erland a difficult sell. "It was… interesting," he restricted himself to saying.

"Interesting?" his father repeated. "Is that it?"

"What else do you want me to say?"

"I want you to give me your honest opinion."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes."

This might prove to be a terrible case of being careful what you wish for, but what the hell. "I thought it was magnificent. One of the best speeches I've ever seen someone in the Hall ever give."

Wearing a brooding frown, his father reached for his jacket to slip it on and button it up.

"Papa, what's wrong?"

"One of the best speeches you've ever seen someone in the Hall ever give," his father calmly repeated.

"Yes."

"And it was Duncan Hamelmark who gave it."

"As opposed to?"

Another sigh. "As opposed to me."

So, it was a matter of wounded professional pride; he would have to tread quite carefully here. "Are you annoyed about that?"

"To be honest, a little bit, yes."

"And is it because you feel you weren't given the _chance_ to give it, or because you think you _couldn't_ give it?"

Silence for a few moments. "Because I know I couldn't give it," his father confessed. "Because no matter how much I prepared, or how many hours of research I did, or how many careful notes I made, even on my best day, I couldn't give a speech even _half_ as good as that one." There was bitterness in his father's tone, but grudging admiration as well. "I don't particularly like Lord Hamelmark, never have, probably never will, but my _Gods_ , the way the man spoke. His pacing and delivery, the facts he covered, the sheer _emotion_ behind his words, especially about the Osbourn thing, the way he used Keveleok's own voting record against her, it was—" he broke off, brows pulling together again, struggling to find the right words.

"It was like watching a master at work," Elfhelm quietly concluded.

His father nodded. "He spoke for almost thirty minutes, completely from memory, never so much as _glanced_ at his notes, and didn't make a single mistake." A hand formed into a fist, gently thumping the bench. "Not a single stutter or stumble, not a single lost train of thought, not so much as one word out of place, in almost half an hour of powerful, stirring, challenging words." His father huffed. "Except for that moment when he implied Camelor was one of the main people behind the petition. But I can't imagine that was really an error. I'm quite sure that was some kind of hidden message."

Elfhelm could help with that, at least. "You're right, it was."

His father spun to face him, brows shooting up. "You know something more?"

Nodding, Elfhelm pushed away from the sink. "Camelor wasn't just _one_ of the people behind the petition, he was the _primary_ person behind it. But he kept his involvement secret, allowed Keveleok and Uncle Jothren to do his dirty work in public for him." Solwen hadn't told him that second part, but you didn't need to be a genius to figure it out. It was the kind of dirty trick the Earl of Camelor would pull.

"Knowing if the petition failed, Leonilla and Jothren would take the fall."

"Exactly."

"My Gods," his father muttered. "I always knew Rogen was cold, but I never thought he was _that_ cold." He shot Elfhelm another frown. "How do you even know this?"

"Lady Solwen told me."

"The Hamelmark girl?"

The blunt tone stirred up Elfhelm's hackles. "The Earl's daughter, yes." Firmly, he added, "And just so you know, I consider her a friend of sorts, so I'd ask you to please not to refer to her that way again."

His father dipped his head, apologizing. "Of course. Forgive me. That was extremely ill-mannered of me." He went to the wall to check the thermostat reading, making sure the temperature was at the right level for the orchids' night cycle. "I assume she told you that on Thursday?" he said.

Elfhelm nodded. "When we were watching the speech. Unfortunately, I didn't have the chance to ask her how she found out."

"From her father, I'd guess." Another troubled sigh. "He's beating us all at that game as well. I can't remember the last time someone told me something interesting, and Duncan Hamelmark didn't already know it. I swear, Elfhelm, he's a one-man information gathering service."

"I've heard that, yes." He tried to turn the conversation to a more positive tone. "But he's not a bad man. A wildcard, yes, a bit of a loose cannon, but almost always in a good way. Not someone you should be scared to try and keep on your side. And who knows? Maybe if you and Erella were a little more trusting, he might be willing to share his information with you when he receives it."

His father gave a knowing nod. "Your mother mentioned this."

"Mentioned what?"

"She told me you'd asked her to go easy on the Hamelmarks. To not judge them too harshly."

"She's right. I did."

"And that if we did, it might come back to us later in a good way."

Bema, how the Gods laughed at mortal men's plans. When he'd spoken to his mother on Thursday, he'd only been thinking about Solwen's relationship with the King. Now, he had to think about his own thing with Erland as well. The first item was still off limits, but the second one was his to share. Not yet, not tonight—he wanted to spend a little more time with Erland first—but soon. If all went well, before the Midsummer party for sure. And the revelation would go over better if his parents didn't view Erland's family as a bunch of shit-stirring troublemakers. Which they sort of were, but that wasn't the point.

"It definitely will," Elfhelm said. He held up a hand. "But I can't explain it to you right now. You just have to trust me on this one."

His father examined him, as if he was trying to weigh the worth of his soul. "You're my son, and the heir to my earldom," he finally said. "If you ask me to trust you, I trust you."

Ten words that meant the world to him. "Thank you."

His father checked the clock. "We've talked enough. Our guests will be here soon, and I still need to round up the staff." For the formal greeting when the King and The Princess Royal arrived. His eyes moved to Elfhelm's jacket. "But you're not wearing your buttonhole yet," his father pointed out. He tapped his own—an orchid, of course—delicate, grey, with light purple spots.

Elfhelm said, "I didn't think we were doing them tonight."

"When would I ever host a black tie event and not have buttonholes made?" Smiling, his father went to a shelf, retrieving another wrapped flower. Also an orchid, but this one a deep red colour with downy, almost velvety finish. Darker than the Fever Dreams he'd sent to Erland, but just as stunning in their own way.

"Is that a Dragon's Wing?" Elfhelm said, watching as his father hooked the buttonhole stem into the loop behind his lapel.

His father nodded. "Well spotted. This one flowered on Wednesday morning. One of the most balanced blooms I've ever seen."

"It always seems such a shame to cut them."

"Dragon's Wings are sensitive things, they only flower for a week. Ten days at the very most. Better to let everyone see it tonight in all its impermanent splendour, than to have it fade away and die in darkness and silence."

Sometimes, the Earl of Elgoll took the most poetic of turns…

His father made for the door; Elfhelm reached to hold him back, needing a private moment to deliver one final piece of advice. "Before we go, one other thing," Elfhelm said.

"What's that?"

"I just wanted to say, don't beat yourself up about the fact you couldn't give the speech the Earl of Hamelmark gave. The truth is, neither could most other people. And not just in terms of speaking talent. It's also about how willing the Earl is to push the limits."

His father snorted, but said nothing.

"There's no shame in not being the best," Elfhelm gently continued. "Especially when you're an extremely competent speaker in your own right."

"But there's competent, and there's outstanding. I can give a good speech. But I can't stun people into silence, or leave them almost in fear of their lives, or make them so angry they start a petition to demand I be burned at the stake."

"But you _can_ bring them together, persuade them, make them cooperate and behave. That's just as useful in its own way. _More_ useful, I think."

"After Thursday, I'm not so sure."

"Papa, you're not the Leader of the Hall in the official sense, that role falls to Erella, because she's the holder of the oldest peerage, but everyone knows you're the Leader of the Hall in every other regard. The Father of the Hall, I once heard Lord Hereoch call you." That got him the slightest of smiles. "People come to you for advice, and your opinion on an issue carries extremely serious weight. If you tell people to stop fighting and sort their shit out, they stop fighting and sort their shit out," Elfhelm pointed out. "The Earl of Hamelmark will _never_ have that. He can't be the voice of reason, because he's too busy being a wild card out at the edge. And I think, the Hall needs someone like him, but it needs someone like you even more. Stop thinking about the fact you can't be him. Start thinking about the fact he can't be you."

Another smile. "Why is it you always know exactly the right thing to say?"

"It's easier when it's the truth."

His father took a breath, pulling his shoulders back. "You're right. I've been wallowing in self-pity, fretting about what I can't be and can't do, completely blind to what I can be and can do. What I already am and already do." He gripped Elfhelm by the shoulders. "Thank you."

"If you need any further proof, you only need to consider what we're doing tonight."

"How so?"

"The King isn't going to the Hamelmark house for Solstice dinner. He's coming here, to have dinner with us."

"Very true." His father smirked. "The King going to the Hamelmark's for dinner. Now, isn't that a ridiculous thought?"

He'd seen the Hamelmark house before, but only from the outside.

It was even more impressive on the inside—the front hall alone was probably the same size as the whole ground floor of his mum and dad's house. The walls had been finished wainscotting style (or was it beadboard style, he could never remember) and he was quite sure the half-height panels were solid sorrow blood wood, but that would surely cost more than even the Hamelmarks could afford. Whatever kind of wood it was, the colour was astounding—a deep, burnished, reddish-brown that reminded him of the embers of a dying fire. The walls were adorned with tasteful pieces of art in various styles (none of which Brendal could name), but interestingly, plenty of family photos as well. Four doors were dotted around the walls, all closed, leading to what kind of rooms, he could only imagine. Two arched passageways led to other parts of the house—one on the left, one on the right. But the staircase was the most eye-catching feature of the hall by far, winding up and around a central open space over what looked like three levels. The banister was the same wood as the wall panels, just with a deeper, slightly glossier finish.

Solwen pulled his sleeve. "I'm just going to put this in my room," she said, holding up Colwenna's bag. "If I leave it out here, some nosy bastard will look inside and want to know what it is."

She definitely needed to put it away, but that would mean leaving him in the hall on his own. Which made him a little bit nervous, to say the least.

"I'll be as quick as I can," she said, sensing his unease. "Stay here. I'll be right back." Bag in hand, she hurried up the stairs, taking them an unladylike two at a time.

He watched her go; no sooner had she turned out of sight on the second level than footsteps sounded from the right passage. Slow, heavy, measured steps; why did they make him think his executioner was coming to meet him? To his not remotely mild alarm, it was 'Uncle' Haradoc who appeared, the one man in the whole building he'd been hoping not to meet without Solwen with him. With good reason—for all the man was eighty-two, he was still built like a thick-walled house, and looked as if he could tear logs apart with his hands. And probably people's limbs as well.

Brendal swallowed, fighting the urge to take a step back. Right there, he understood why that platoon of Harad soldiers had surrendered to Haradoc without so much as a word of resistance. He would try it himself, if only he had something to surrender with.

To his amazement, Haradoc showed him the warmest and kindest of smiles. "I thought I heard the front door close. Brendal, lad, how are you?" he asked, coming forward to hold out a hand.

Brendal took the hand to shake; was it his imagination, or was the always fearsome grip just a _tiny_ bit more crushing today? "I'm very well, thank you. And you?"

"My knees are still giving me trouble, but apart from that, I can't complain." Frowning, he looked around. "Is Solly not here?"

Brendal pointed upstairs. "She had to put something in her room."

"Did she, now?" Grinning, Haradoc leaned in to murmur, "And would that be a nice wee _something_ from you, by chance?"

His head was on fire, and he wasn't sure why. He cleared his throat enough to say, "Not from me, no. A mutual friend asked me to deliver something." A quick lie, based on the truth, simple, not overexplained. He felt quite pleased with himself; this lying game might be easier than it sounded.

Straightening up, Haradoc eyed him, as if he was trying to decide which of Brendal's limbs he wanted to rip away first. "I have to say, I was a wee bit taken aback when Duncan told me who Solly was dating."

Duncan. Solwen's father. Right. "Not in a bad way, I hope."

"Oh, no, not at all," Haradoc scoffed. "I'd much rather Solly be dating an honest Marcher lad like you than some chinless Edoran sack of meat." A troubled frown. "Saying that—"

This was it; the threat of death and disembowelling if he hurt so much as a hair on Solwen's head. Maybe it would be easier if he just beat Haradoc to it. Summoning every ounce of courage he had, Brendal held up a hand. "If this is the part where you tell me you have a gun and a shovel, you don't need to worry," he said.

"I wouldn't dream of every saying such a thing," said Haradoc, pulling away a little, looking almost offended. A feral smile appeared on his face. "But now you mention it, have I ever told you about the time when I was a lad, and I spent my summer working as a gravedigger?"

That was a new one; slightly more subtle than the usual 'gun and shovel' routine. And he didn't doubt for a second the claim was true. The size of Haradoc's hands, he'd probably just scooped the dirt right out of the ground.

"It's hard work, of course, not for the faint of heart," Haradoc went on, as if he was discussing his aerobics routine. "But it does mean I know an awful lot about how to bury people."

And there it was. His first (thinly-veiled) threat of the day. Time would tell if it would be the last.

With perfect timing, Solwen reappeared, smiling at first, frowning as she saw her grandfather. "I hope you're being nice," she said looking straight at Haradoc.

"Of course I am," Haradoc protested. "When would I ever be rude to a guest?"

She snorted. To Brendal, she said, "Did he threaten you? Talk about owning a gun and a shovel? Or an axe and a plastic sheet? Or a container of acid and a bath? Tell you he knows someone who owns a herd of ravenous pigs? Or where all the best swamps in Rohan are? Or did he give you the gravedigger routine?"

"The gravedigger one," Brendal admitted.

She turned her glare on her grandfather again. "Don't fucking do that," she said.

"It's just a wee bit of fun. You know I don't mean anything serious by it."

"Yes, except it's _horribly_ inappropriate. And just a tiny bit sexist as well. I know I'm the only girl in the family, but I'm twenty-eight, and I lived in Mordor on my own for a year. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"If it'll make you feel better, I'll do the same thing to Erland's new man when I meet him as well," Haradoc offered.

Brendal bit down on a laugh. Haradoc Giantsbane gently (or not so gently) threatening Elfhelm of the mighty Elgolls. They could honestly sell tickets to that. The King would set up a popcorn stand. And he personally thought the acid bath threat would be the best option.

"See?" Haradoc said, gesturing to him. "Even Brendal likes that idea."

"Brendal should bloody know better," she said.

"Och, away and shite," Haradoc muttered. He slapped Brendal on the shoulder, almost knocking him clean off his feet, then beckoned him down the hall. "Let's introduce you to the rest of the brood, get you something to drink."

The convoy slowed to turn off the road, passing through the massive gates that marked the entrance to the Elgoll estate.

It was an in-joke in the society set—how positively _dreadful_ it was the Earl of Elgoll didn't have a house in the city he could stay in when the Hall was in session, but had to commute to and from his holding instead. The joke being, his holding _was_ his house in the city—Elgoll being the only holding in the whole kingdom located entirely within the capital's limits. And it wasn't a house so much as a mansion, set in a sprawling, sumptuous, verdant estate that every housing developer in Rohan would trade their firstborn to get their hands on.

She turned to check the trailing car; as she'd expected, it stopped to let Guthlaf and Mordoc climb out. They would stay at the gates, armed and dressed for a long shift outdoors, block and examine any vehicles that attempted to enter. She only hoped all the other guests had already arrived.

"Remind me again, who else is going to be here tonight?" Eowyn asked.

"All of the Elgolls, obviously," Eomer said. "Cenefer's man, can't for the life of me remember his name—"

Sometimes, it was a marvel Eomer even remembered he was the King. "Brentan," Eowyn said. "Not Landed. Also a barrister, if I recall correctly." Did he and Cenefer argue like a regular couple? Or did they don their wigs and robes, plead for the defense and the prosecution instead?

Eomer nodded. "Brentan, thank you." He went back to his list. "Lady Darkfald and her husband. Lady Thelanor and her husband, and Mordulf as well." He counted up on his fingers. "Including you and me, that makes twelve."

"They better not put me next to Cenefer." It wasn't that she outright disliked Elfhelm's sister—the woman just rubbed her very much the wrong way. But Eowyn was an equal opportunity offender; she was perfectly happy to rub Cenefer the wrong way in return.

"I spoke to Elfhelm about that already. He was going to have a subtle word in his mother's ear."

Eowyn snorted. "Meaning he'll go to her and say 'Wynnie and Cennie hate each other, please don't put them together'. Because that's about as subtle as Elfhelm gets."

"I'm sure everything will be fine," Eomer soothed. "The Countess will almost certainly seat us using the Courtland's rules, so she'll put you at the end of the table with Lord Elgoll and Erella's husband."

Courtland's, Bema. The people behind that organization really needed to get a life. "Does that mean they're also going to do the formal arrival thing?"

"With all the uniformed staff lined up behind them in the front hall?" Sighing, he nodded. "Probably, yes."

They would have to (briefly) sing for their supper, then. "Wonderful."

The house came into view; all the external spotlights were on, bathing the double-winged, two-storey building and the immaculate formal gardens in a soft yellow glow. She had to admit, it was rather an impressive sight. Certainly more elegant than the tumbling hodgepodge design of the Palace.

The car slowed to a stop right in front of the main door. One of the Elgolls' footmen stepped in to open her door, another did the same on Eomer's side. She could already see the household gathering in the hall—the Earl and the Countess out front, Elfhelm and Cenefer one to each side, all of the staff lined up in a semi-circle behind them. The other guests would be in the parlour, waiting for their monarch to bless them with his majestic presence.

Eomer came around the car to collect her, holding out the crook of his right arm. "Let's go have dinner, shall we?"

Haradoc led him past some more doors to an enormous, high-ceilinged, open-plan space at the back of the house. A massive luxury kitchen with a five-person, bar-style island and top-of-the-range appliances his mum would sell his dad to have (and maybe even his niece and nephew as well), a breakfast 'nook' with an eight-person table (not laid, so they must be having dinner elsewhere) and a sprawling, comfortable living room full of casual couches and chairs. Or should he call them sofas instead? The wall of windows faced west, bathing the space in soft evening light. A set of double doors at the end of the living room opened onto what looked like a wraparound terrace; he could just make out the top level of a terraced garden beyond.

More frames dotted the walls, but instead of tasteful pieces of art, they held photos of people—Hamelmarks past and present at various ages. No embarrassing childhood snaps of Solwen that he could see—she might have removed them before he arrived. Three photos on a shelf caught his eye, all showing a newly-married couple. The same groom—Solwen's dad—with three different brides. The bride in the second one must be Solwen's mother. And Bema, she was a _hell_ of a looker. Or, had been a hell of a looker, rather. Looking again, he saw all three brides were extremely attractive. Whatever else one could say about the earl, one couldn't criticize his taste in the ladies. Sadly, apart from the shape of her eyes, Solwen bore almost no resemblance to her late mother at all.

Other details in the room popped out. There were dents here and there in the walls, scuffs and scratches in the floor, an interesting stain on the ceiling (what had put it there, Brendal could only imagine), notes taped to the front of the fridge, shoes abandoned in the most haphazard of places, books and magazines piled on tables, items of clothing hanging on hooks or scattered on chairs. Everything about this room told him this was a house the family lived in and loved, not a house they owned just to show people how rich and important they were. He was quite sure, if he went looking, he would find a door somewhere with a half-century's worth of children's' names, ages and heights carefully carved into the frame.

Instantly, as if a weight had been lifted, Brendal relaxed. The Hamelmarks might be rich and Landed, but these were definitely people he could break bread and share a beer with.

A woman was in the kitchen, late forties, extremely attractive, average height, dark brown hair pinned up in an elegant 'do, beautifully dressed (but wearing an apron over the top), bustling back and forth with the food. She was also the woman from the third wedding photo. That, plus her age and appearance told Brendal she must be Solwen's stepmother. And Bema, why could he not remember her name? No huge concern—she would probably remind him when they were introduced.

Five men were loitering in the living room—three standing, two sitting—all peering at a massive flat-screen television in the far corner. Someone moved a step to the right, just enough for Brendal to see they were playing some kind of shoot-'em-up game, and the two seated men were holding controllers. To his relief, they were all wearing the same dress code as him—smart trousers and shirts, but not a jacket or tie in sight. He wouldn't stick out like a spare prick at a prostitute's wedding, then. Good.

"Our guest of honour's here," Haradoc called out, startling Brendal a bit. Was he really the guest of honour? Solwen had mentioned it on their walk in, but it didn't make sense. Her father was an earl; _he_ was just a bike mechanic.

Six pairs of eyes immediately turned to assess him. Which, of course, absolutely didn't put him on edge at all. No, sir. Not even one, tiny bit.

A man broke away from the group. Tall, trim, early fifties, an affable, easygoing manner, not classically handsome, but good-looking in an agreeable, down-to-earth way. Solwen's dad—the Earl of Hamelmark himself. Brendal had met him a couple of times, but even if he hadn't, he would know who it was based on the striking resemblance to Solwen alone. She really was her father's daughter—same chin, same nose, same light brown hair with the lick at the brow, same inquisitive, bright blue eyes. He wondered how many of her personality traits had come from the Earl as well…

"Brendal, hello," the Earl said, smiling warmly as he held out his hand. "Really great to see you again. Glad you could join us."

"Thank you for inviting me," Brendal said as he shook. "Was very thoughtful of you." Precisely what the purpose of that thought was, he still wasn't sure…

Solwen let out a snort. "You might not think that in a few hours."

The stepmother hurried over "Brendal, hello, it's lovely to meet you again," she said, holding out her hand as well. Her beaming smile lit up the whole room. "I'm Nediriel, Solwen's stepmum. We've met before, but it was a long time ago."

Brendal nodded. "I remember, yes. Lovely to see you again, too." He'd solved the name riddle, but now another riddle reared its head. Could he call her Nediriel, or should he use a more formal mode of address? He suspected the former, but he didn't want to put his foot in it. Skirting the issue for now, he held up the two bags. "I brought these for you," he said, handing one to the earl and one to his wife. He had no idea what the protocol for gift-giving was—was he supposed to hold each bag out with both hands while sinking into a grovelling bow? "Just a little minding to say thank you for including me in your family dinner."

Nediriel's hand reached into her bag, bringing out a long, flat, gift-wrapped box. She shook it slightly, held it to her nose and smiled. "Do I detect chocolates?" she asked with an appreciative gleam in her eye.

Brendal grinned. "I couldn't possibly comment."

"I _love_ chocolates," she said, in a way that told him she wasn't saying that just to be polite.

"Should put them away, before any of the barbarians get their hands on them," Solwen added, nodding at the horde of men around the TV, three of whom now seemed to be hurling abuse at the fourth.

"Good point, yes. And forgive me, but I need to start the potatoes as well." Nediriel moved away, stashing the chocolates in a drawer then turning her focus to a pot on the hob.

The Earl whistled as he brought out his wine. "A Rinkastel Bright? Bema, Brendal, that's a bloody good wine." He gave Haradoc a sly wink. "The King must pay his mechanics more than I thought," he pretended to whisper.

Solwen poked him in the ribs. "Don't be rude."

"Sorry, right, not supposed to talk about how much things cost, how utterly vulgar of me." Duncan held the bottle up. "This is wonderful, thank you. We don't have a lot of reds in the cellar right now, somebody keeps bloody drinking them"—he shot a glare at his wife, who rolled her eyes and waved him away—"so this'll help us stock up."

Two wins for two, thank you, Colwenna. Again. At this rate, he was going to owe her more than a good round of gossip.

Haradoc took the bottle of wine. "You get Brendal settled, I'll put this in the cellar for you."

"Just watch the steps after the turn," Duncan said. "They're a wee bit steep."

"I'm well aware they're a wee bit steep," said Haradoc in a scornful tone. "Who do you think built the bloody cellar in the first place?" Glaring dismissively at his son, he turned to walk back into the hall.

Duncan grinned. "I think I probably deserved that." He beckoned Brendal deeper into the room. "Come meet everyone else." He leaned in to murmur, "They're playing some kind of video game I don’t understand, but which they all insist is _monumentally_ important, so don't be offended if the most you get is a half-hearted grunt."

"Quite alright. My nephews are exactly the same." And sometimes, his brother-in-law as well.

Brendal followed the earl to the living room, trying to remember from his previous interactions with the family which two were Solwen's brothers. He'd last seen them at the funeral of their grandmother, just over a decade ago. And even then, only for a few minutes. The oldest wouldn't have changed too much, but the younger one would have gone from a kid to a full-grown adult by now.

The oldest of the four men—Brendal instantly recognized him as Erland—came forward first. He had the same height and lean build as Solwen, but apart from that, he looked almost nothing like his sister at all. His hair was a few shades lighter, and he had finer, almost elegant features. A classically handsome face; the bastard must be beating them off with a shitty stick. His body language was calmer as well. Solwen was like Haradoc—she walked with purpose and resolve, as if she was on her way to overthrow a small neighbouring nation—but he sensed Erland was a quieter creature, more reserved, a little more diplomatic. But the eyes were the same—inquisitive, observant, that striking, vivid shade of blue.

"Brendal, hi, good to see you again, long time, no talk," Erland said, extending a hand, showing a friendly smile. "No problems getting here, I assume?"

"None at all, no. The bus only takes twenty minutes. Very efficient." About the only thing in this city that was.

"Glad to hear it." Erland leaned over to tug the shoulder of somebody's shirt. A younger man stood up, scowling, not at all pleased to be pulled out of the game. This would be where the grunting came in. He must be the younger half-brother—Nediriel's son. He took after his mother as well. His colouring was darker—probably his Gondorian genes—and his eyes were hazel instead of blue. He wasn't quite as handsome as his older half-brother, but he was still a good-looking lad. Or, would be, if he got rid of the petted lip scowl. The early twenties, such a great age.

"Brendal, this is Astalor, our younger brother," Erland said, waving between them. "Astalor, this is Brendal." His eye twitched in what might have been a wink. "Solwen's new man."

Solwen's new man. Bema. Just hearing someone say it made him wish the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

"Hey, man," said Astalor, holding out his hand, laid-back and casual, absolutely no airs or graces at all. "Nice to meet you. Glad you could make it."

"Nice to meet you, too."

Social obligations fulfilled, Astalor went back to his game.

"You'll have to forgive him," Duncan leaned in to murmur. "He's still a person-in-training, not quite fully housebroken yet."

The other two men stepped in—these must be Erland's half-brothers on his mother's side. Twins, he was sure Solwen had said. And Bema, were they two peas in a pod. Not identical, but there was no mistaking they were full brothers. Their hair was darker than Astalor's—almost jet black—and their eyes were so light blue they were almost grey. But Erland's features had definitely come from his mother, because his siblings had them as well—the same chiselled jaw, the same straight nose, the same cheekbones you could cut yourself on. Never mind beating them off with a stick—these lads were probably hip-deep in them.

It was truly fascinating to see—a living, breathing example of genetics at work. Five children in total—one female, four male—three with the same father, three with the same mother, a mish-mash of cross-shared features and traits. Even the hair colour was a progression, from Erland's sandy brown all the way through to the twin's glossy black.

"How you doing?" one of the twins said in the broadest Isendale accent Brendal had ever heard. "I'm Darion. You must be Solly's boyfriend."

That strange word again. "That's me, aye." He shook the offered hand.

The other twin came forward. "I'm Roddig," he said, in an accent just as broad as his brother's. "Or Roddy, whatever works."

Another shake. "Good to meet you both."

Roddig turned back to the game, but Darion stayed on to chat. He waved to the earl. "Duncan says you're from Isendale as well."

"That's right. I grew up in Vorngow."

"Nice place." Darion winked at Erland. "Not quite as fancy as Seigoth, but then, where is?" He turned to gesture at his full brother. "We're in Kilmister ourselves, over on the south side. Just got our own place."

Ragnill's sister had lived in Kilmister, so he knew the place well. "I've been there, it's nice. Good restaurants. Some really great pubs."

Darion grinned. "Why do you think we moved there?"

"Speaking of pubs," Duncan said, showing Brendal a smile, "what can we get you to drink? Are you a wine or a beer man?"

His mum would tell him to ask for wine to look more 'sophisticated', but his mum wasn't here, and after the 'chat' with Haradoc, he really needed a cold one. "I'm a beer man, thanks."

"Good choice," Darion said, bumping his glass of Aldburg Black into Erland's glass of red wine, making it clear what he thought of his half-brother's selection.

"Anything in particular you like?" Duncan asked. "We have all the usual brews. Plus some foreign stuff downstairs."

He waved at Darion's drink—a nice, easy, classic choice. "I'll take a Black if you have it, please."

"We certainly do." The earl stepped away to deal with his drink.

"So, what brings you guys into town?" Brendal said to Darion, waving to include his brother. "Solwen mentioned you're visiting for a couple of days."

"We're doing a gig in Hornburg Park tomorrow," Darion said.

"Oh, so you're musicians, then?"

Erland snorted. "If you can call what they make music," he muttered into his wine.

"Don't mind him," Darion said, shooting his brother a glare. "He's so tone deaf, I'm ashamed to admit we're even related. He wouldn't know what good music was if it shat in his lunch."

"Darion," the earl called out from the kitchen. "You're not in a bar. Language, please."

"Sorry," Darion called out. Sheepish, he leaned over to whisper, "I keep forgetting I'm in a posh people house."

Behind them, something in the game exploded; the floor vibrated under their feet.

"Mother- _fucker_!" Astalor shouted, shooting up from the couch. Eyes blazing, he scowled at a grinning Roddig. "You totally set me up! That base was _mine_!"

"You snooze, you lose," Roddig drawled, turning to give the rest of them a victorious wink.

"You're such a two-faced piece of shit," Astalor muttered, jabbing the button to reload the game. He pointed at Roddig. "You stay where you are. Don't fucking move. We're doing this again."

The earl returned with his beer—nice and cold, just how Brendal liked it. "I would apologize for the language," Duncan said, "but you're probably going to hear a lot worse by the end of the night." He nodded at the TV. "Especially if they keep playing this."

"It's fine. This is almost polite compared to what I hear at work." And also compared to what he'd heard Solwen say. Did Duncan know his daughter cursed like a trucker on acid? "Things get pretty heated when I play this game with my brother-in-law and my nephews as well." Although, maybe not to the 'two-faced piece of shit' level.

Astalor raised an astonished brow. "You've _played_ this?" he said, as if Brendal had just declared he was in the running for a knighthood.

"A few times, yes."

"You any good?"

"I've been known to kick the occasional arse."

Astalor took Brendal's beer, handed him the controller, slapped him on the shoulder, nodded at the TV. "Right, then. Let's see what you've got." He checked the clock. "If you don't mess about, we can fit a level in before dinner."

Brendal looked to Solwen, asking permission, thinking it was the kind of thing a new boyfriend on a first visit would do. "You okay with that?"

"Brendal, man, you're so fucking whipped," Darion whispered.

Erland slapped Darion's ear. "He's not whipped. He's being polite." Smiling, he turned to Brendal. "Ignore him, please. _He's_ not really housebroken yet, either."

"You can play, on one condition," Solwen said, raising a finger. She jabbed it at Roddig. "Kick his _arse_ to Gondor and back."

"The fuck did I ever do to you?" Roddig protested

Solwen gestured at her head. "You spat chewing gum in my hair."

"When we were _fourteen_. And it was an accident. I was trying to spit it in the bin."

Fourteen, Bema. Should he maybe warn the King his new girlfriend really knew how to hold a grudge?

"Don't trust _anything_ he does," Astalor added, guiding Brendal across to the seat. "Assume every word he says is a lie, and every move he makes is a trap."

And not just Solwen, it seemed—grudges might be another Hamelmark thing…

"So unfair," Roddig muttered. His lips quirked as he shrugged. "But maybe a wee bit true as well." He looked to Brendal. "You ready, old man?" he said, a finger on the 'Start' button. "Or, do you need to go for a wee nap first?"

Old man. Wee nap. He was going to smear this cheeky fucker into the ground. "Ready when you are. I just hope you know how to keep up."

Let the arse-kicking begin…

Seven o'clock.

All Godhild had to do now was make one final sweep of the residence floor. Once that was done, she could change and head home, enjoy her Solstice dinner with her sister. It wouldn't be much of a dinner compared to what the King and the Princess Royal would have, but she didn't feel deprived for it. She and Esmene were simple, down-to-earth people; they didn't need to dress to the nines, or drink sparkling wine out of fine crystal glasses. A pizza and a six-pack would do.

It was always strange, being on the residence floor when the occupants were away. The King's Hall wasn't the most inviting of places at the best of times, with the echoing effect of the floor and the stern portraits lining the wall, silently judging you as you passed. When it was this empty, it was a doubly forbidding place. Not helped by the fact someone had lowered the lights to half-level, filling the space with misshapen shadows, turning the portraits invisible except for the eyes, which now seemed to follow her as she moved. Best to do this as quick as she could; if she stayed too long, her imagination would start to get the better of her.

Her phone buzzed, the sudden angry sound set her pulse racing and made her jump out of her skin. And the pattern of the buzzing. Bema, it must be _him_. At seven o'clock on Solstice night. Did he not have something better to do with his time?

Heart pounding, she pulled her phone out of her pocket. As she saw his message, she fought back the urge to be sick.

 _I NEED THAT NAME_ , it said.

Fingers trembling, she quick typed back, _I don't have it yet_. Should she tell him her shifts had changed, that Fastmer was on the hunt for a mole, and it was only a matter of time until they caught up to her? But if she told him that, he would cut her loose now, leave her and Esmene to fend for themselves. Best to keep him in the dark for as long as she could. _Still digging, will update as soon as I have it_.

 _Not enough_ , was his curt response. _Tell me by end of day Tuesday or we're done_.

She choked back a sob, clamped a hand to her mouth. End of day Tuesday, oh Gods. There was no way she would find something by then, not when she'd been relegated to the shitty shifts where she didn't even see the King, much less anyone he might be dating.

She didn't respond—what could she say—but put her phone back in her pocket. She shouldn't think about this right now. Check the floor, finish up, go home for dinner and wine. Think about today, today; worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

She strode up to the double doors, grabbled the handles, turned and pushed. As she'd expected, nothing happened.

Sighing, she leaned her forehead against the door, wishing she could walk through walls, or teleport herself inside. What might she find, inside the King's rooms? She'd only seen the 'public' side of the suite a couple of times—she'd never been in the private side, had no idea how many rooms it even contained. Surely, she would find something in them that would keep her patron happy? Thirty minutes was all she needed. Thirty secret, undisturbed minutes with His Majesty's most private effects—his diary, his papers, his personal belongings. It seemed like such a small thing to ask. But she might as well be asking for someone to give her the moon on a stick. She was only a grade three guard—nowhere near important enough to have her thumbprint loaded into the bio-scanner.

Or, was she? What _were_ the scanner rules for this door? Not just anyone, of course. But surely, if any team in the palace should have unfettered access to the King's rooms, it was His Majesty's personal guards? In case of an emergency, if nothing else?

And Bema, what if she _could_ get in?

Before her common sense could kick in, she held her thumb to the scanner at the side of the door. It hummed, turned red and emitted an angry buzzing sound. The sound of rejection, of once again being told she wasn't quite good enough.

Oh, well. So much for that.

Sighing, she turned to walk back down the Hall. She pressed the microphone on her collar, opening a channel to the security office. "Godhild here. Residence floor is safe and clear. I'm out for the night. See you at the same time tomorrow."

Fastmer's phone vibrated against his hip.

Bema. Of all the times for something back at the Palace to raise an alert.

The alert could wait; he had important work to do here first.

He scanned the driveway at the front of the house, trying to decide where to position his people. He'd brought a full team of eight people with him, and the Elgoll's had a state-of-the-art perimeter security system (now fully armed), but it was still a lot of ground to cover.

He looked to Elfwina and Guthlaf. "You two stay out front." He pointed to the inner wall, maybe a hundred metres away from the house. "Check to the wall every hour, please." Next, he looked to Osrick, Herseline and Sorvana. "You three cover the terrace and the rear gardens." To Sorvana specifically, he said, "There's going to be a fireworks display. The crew's been fully cleared, but check them out, inspect any vehicles and equipment they have. _Thoroughly_ ," he stressed. A fireworks display was the perfect cover for firing some kind of explosive or gun. "You find any problems at all, you squawk. Understand?" He looked around; five heads solemnly nodded.

To Vonnal, he said, "You're inside with me. Anything happens, I'm with the King, you're with the Princess Royal."

"Yes, sir," said Vonnal nodding.

Duties assigned, he pulled out his phone. To his surprise, the alert wasn't from a person, but from the Palace security system. And not just any part of the system—from the bio-scanner at the King's door. The door was locked for the night, what the fuck was going on? He double-tapped to open the text, swearing viciously under his breath as he saw what had triggered the message.

Did Godhild not know, her fingerprints were in the system? That even though she wasn't authorized to open the door, the system still knew who she was? And had just logged her entry attempt? Her attempt to enter the _King's private rooms_?

What the ever-loving _fuck_ was she doing? How stupid could one person be?


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendal has dinner with the Hamelmarks...

"Right, you lot," Haradoc called out from the door. "Get your miserable arses into the Dining Room now."

"That's grandpa's charming way of telling everyone dinner is served," Tugging his sleeve, Solwen rose from her perch on the arm of the couch. "Time to eat."

About bloody time. He'd last eaten just after two, and the passed-around trays of pre-dinner nibbles had only dulled the edge of his hunger, so he was ready to eat the proverbial horse. "Sorry, lads," Brendal said to Astalor and Roddy. "I'm afraid we'll have to leave the arse-kicking here."

Roddy glowered at him. "Still can't believe you won that last level," he muttered. "There's no _way_ you got through it that fast without cheating."

Because cheating was the only explanation, of course. It couldn't _possibly_ be that Brendal was better. Not when Brendal was a shrivelled up forty-two, and Roddy was a lithe twenty-eight. "Like I said, I've played this a bit." Smiling, he patted Roddy's shoulder. "We can play again after dinner. I'll even give you a twenty second head start," he said, making Erland groan and Astalor snicker. He turned his back on the group, waving at Solwen to lead the way.

"He's going to make you pay for that," Solwen warned as she led him out of the family room to one of the doors he'd passed in the hall. "He doesn't like to lose."

"To be honest, I would probably have let him win if he hadn't called me an old man."

"Who's calling who an old man?" Haradoc asked as they stepped into the room.

And not just any room—one of the loveliest dining rooms Brendal had ever seen. More half-height wainscotting along the walls, but a lighter, golden wood this time, a high ceiling with a _crystal chandelier_ of all things, a massive, four-panelled bay window at the far end of the room, a few tasteful pieces of furniture along the long side walls and a full-length portrait on the near wall, perfectly centered between the room's doors, of a man wearing what Brendal was sure was formal 19th century dress. The only oddity was the table itself, which was perfectly round, instead of the long, rectangular shape he'd expected. And to his surprise, all the food had been set out already—someone must have been dealing with that while he'd been handing people their gentleman parts on a plate.

"Something wrong?" Solwen said.

"Not at all, no." He gestured at the food. "It's just, I would have helped with the serving."

She shook her head. "You're our guest tonight. The only thing you need to do here is turn up and eat. Oh, and maybe say 'thank you' after. The rest is on us."

"Where do you want me to sit?" he said as the rest of the family filed in behind.

"The seating's all planned," Duncan announced, "so find the seat with your name at it. And if you don't like where I've put you, take it up with someone who cares."

Bema, this could be fun. Brendal checked the cards until he found his own name; to his immense relief, Duncan had put him between Solwen and Erland. Two safe, innocuous neighbours, thank fuck. He'd half expected to find himself with Haradoc on his left and the Earl himself on his right.

He wasn't sure what the protocol was, so he took Colwenna's advice, waited to see what everyone did. But all everyone did was sit. No fuss, no ceremony, nobody ringing a fancy wee bell or waiting for someone important to do something else first.

Nediriel was the last appear, bringing a final bowl of food with her. "Help yourselves," she said as she set the bowl down. "There's plenty for everyone, as long as nobody tries to be a greedy swine"—she raised a brow at Astalor and the twins—"and there's more of everything in the kitchen." She hung her apron on the back of the chair and claimed her seat, immediately reaching for one of the bottles of wine. And Bema, there was plenty of that as well—four open bottles on the table, and another six on the sideboard behind him. If they got through all that, it would be a bloody great night.

It was all a terribly laid-back affair. Bowls were passed round and food was dished out, piled high onto fine china plates. Solwen threw a dinner roll to Roddig, Darion used his own fork to half-drop, half-throw some potatoes onto his twin brother's plate. And there was certainly plenty of food—between the two types of meat and the six types of veg, enough to feed a small army. No peas, just as Solwen had promised. Just plain, regular normal foods he already knew how to eat. Although, given Astalor was checking his phone and using his fingers to eat his green beans, nobody seemed to care too much about what was proper and what wasn't.

He couldn't _wait_ to tell Colwenna…

"I'm surprised you use a round table," he said to Solwen. "I expected some long fancy thing with your dad and stepmum at each end."

"Oh, we have that as well." She tapped the table surface. "That's underneath, there's all kinds of expandable and add-on panels that turn it into various sizes and shapes. But the standard format's a wee bit imposing when you have more than six people, you feel like you need a megaphone to speak to folks at the other end. And it's a nightmare to deal with the food. This is more sociable. And more friendly. Nobody's more important than anyone else. We're all at the same level."

A nice thought, except, they _weren't_ all at the same level. No matter where and how they all sat, he was still a bike mechanic and her father was still an earl. But if it didn't bother them, perhaps he shouldn't let it bother him.

"Everyone got enough food?" Duncan asked. Eight people called out or indicated assent. "And what about wine?" was the earl's next question. "Any empty glasses?" Eight negative answers this time. Duncan tapped his glass with his fork; Astalor sighed and put his phone in his pocket. Something was about to happen.

The earl looked to his dad. "You want to do it, or shall I?"

"Let me do it," Haradoc said. "If you do it, you'll want to make a big speech first, and I'll die of old age before I get to eat my dinner." Clearing his throat, he pushed to his feet, holding his glass out over the table, prompting everyone else to stand and do the same thing. "I've never been one for fancy words, so I'll keep this short and sweet." Smiling, he looked around the guests. His next words were as familiar to Brendal as his own name—the Solstice toast he'd first heard as a six-year-old child in his maternal grandparents' house. "May your lives be as long and filled with warmth and sun as the many hours of the Solstice Day, may your troubles be as quick to pass as the few hours of the Solstice night." He raised his glass a little higher. "To family and loved ones and friends," he said.

"To family and loved ones and friends," everyone repeated. Glasses chimed together, everyone took a quick drink.

"Right, then. Everyone dig in," Duncan said.

As he worked his way through a slice of roast beef, Brendal's gaze went again to the portrait between the room's doors. He was dying to know who it was of—maybe one of the previous occupants of the house? He cleared his throat. "Lord Hamelmark, can I ask, who's the man in the portrait?" he said, pointing with his knife.

"Bema, Brendal, call me Duncan, please," the earl said. "Nobody uses my title outside the Hall, you make me think I'm still at work."

"Sorry," Brendal said, feeling his ears burn a little. "Just wasn't quite sure what the proper protocol was."

"Yeah, we don't really do that here," Erland murmured. "As I'm sure you've noticed by now."

Duncan continued, "To answer your question, the man in the portrait is my great-great-grandfather, Winlen, the 10th Earl of Hamelmark."

"And why does he have his portrait in here? Why not someone else?"

Solwen blew out a sigh. "Because _he's_ the Peacock Killer."

Brendal's brain blinked. "I'm sorry, the _what_?"

"The Peacock Killer," Astalor said, as if saying the words a second time would magically make them make sense.

Grinning, Roddig said, "You haven't heard that glorious story then?"

"I'm afraid I haven't, no." Time to try out those new lying skills. "Did you tell me about this?" he said to Solwen. "Because I think I would remember a story about a peacock killer."

Solwen shook her head. "Not yet, no. I was saving it for later."

"In case telling you makes you want to run for the hills," Darion added.

As he recalled, he'd wanted to run for the hills that day in the pub, when he'd realized what him 'dating' Solwen would make Haradoc think. "So, what did he do?" Brendal asked, pointing at the portrait again. "Did he actually kill a peacock?"

"Not just any peacock, lad," Haradoc said, chest swelling in pride. "The _King's_ peacocks. Two of them. The last native breeding pair the House of Eorl owned."

He should have asked about the chandelier instead. Although, knowing his luck, they'd probably knicked it from somebody's house, or won it in some kind of dubious bet. "Do I even want to know why?"

"He and the King had a wee falling out," Solwen explained.

Duncan added, "Over who owned a horse, of all things."

How totally, utterly Rohanese of them…

Solwen paused to chew some beef. "Long story short, the Earl decided that if the King wouldn't give him the horse he thought was rightfully his, he would take the King's peacocks as compensation." She sighed. "To his credit, he _did_ intend to take them alive…"

"But?" Brendal prompted.

"But peafowl are vicious assholes," Erland explained. "Especially when one of them's a peahen and she's sitting on eggs."

Brendal groaned; he could almost smell the disaster coming.

Duncan picked it up from there. "So, the peahen attacked him, and in fending her off, Winlen accidentally broke her neck." He speared a potato onto his plate. "He decided, since the birds were supposed to be a breeding pair, and you can't breed anything when you only have one, he might as well just kill the other one as well, cut his losses, and take them home to have them for dinner."

"Okay, that's…" Brendal broke off, not quite knowing which word to use.

"It's what?" Haradoc prompted.

"I'm not really sure. I was going to say 'ridiculous', but given who he stole the birds from, I might have to go with suicidal instead. I mean, didn't the King object?"

"Oh, aye," said Haradoc. "He certainly did. Thing was, he didn't actually know who'd done it. All he knew was, the peacocks were in their pen when he went to bed, and gone when he got up, and nobody had any idea what happened."

"What, at _all_?"

"It's not like they had CCTV in the late eighteen hundreds, lad. And Winlen was a smart man. Very good at keeping secrets. He managed to keep it all under wraps."

But of course he had. Keep secrets was all this ridiculous family did. "So, you're telling me the King _never_ found out?" He tried to figure out which King it must have been. Fengel, maybe. Or even Folcwine. He couldn't remember when Folcwine had died; royal history wasn't really his thing.

"Oh, he found out all right," a grinning Duncan said. "About five years later, when the Earl's oldest daughter got married, and she turned up in a wedding cloak decorated with peacock feathers."

"He made the peacocks into a _cloak_?"

"Waste not, want not," Solwen said. "No point in throwing all those lovely feathers away."

"What on earth did the King do?" Given how protective Eomer was of the 'foot—a non-breeding, inanimate object—probably nothing good.

"He put a Ban on Winlen. Barred him from entering Edoras for ten years."

"That's quite a long time."

"Tell me about it," said Solwen drily.

There was another story behind that remark, but he should wait until later to ask. "I didn't think you could eat peacocks. Or peahens. Or whatever they are."

Haradoc nodded. "Peafowl. And they're perfectly edible. Just another game bird, really. Nothing special. They taste more or less like chicken."

"Doesn't everything?" Nediriel said.

He wanted to ask Solwen if Eomer knew the peacock story, but that was a question for later as well. Would Eomer even care about what happened? Probably not—he didn't seem like the kind of man to be offended on a long-dead relation's behalf. And, to be fair, the long-dead relation might have deserved it. You _never_ stole another man's horse. Not even if he'd tried to run away with your wife (or daughter) first.

"Next time we're up at the Isendale house, I'll show you the cloak," said Solwen.

"Yes, because there's nothing a man appreciates more than his new girlfriend showing him a _wedding cloak_ ," said Erland tartly.

Solwen giggled, slapping a hand to her mouth. To Brendal, she said, "Sorry, I didn't think about that. It would just be to show it to you as a historical object." She patted his hand. "I wouldn't be implying anything, I promise."

Bema, she was awfully good at this 'pretending to be his girlfriend' thing. It made him wonder if she'd done it before…

"I can't imagine your family's awfully popular with the royals," Brendal said. "If you killed their last ever breeding pair of peacocks."

"It's not as if any of us did it ourselves," Erland said. "They shouldn't blame us for something that happened long before any of us were even born."

Brendal couldn't deny he made a fair point…

In the mildest of voices, Haradoc added, "And it was honestly nothing compared to the horse pissing thing."

"The horse… okay, _what_?"

Nediriel sighed. "It's a variation on the peacock theme. And yet another example of what a terrible bunch of troublemakers the Hamelmarks are."

"You married me," Duncan pointed out. "You didn't want trouble, you should have married that nice boy from Dol Amroth instead."

"Yes, except, you didn't tell me most of the really terrible stuff until _after_ we got married, remember?"

"I told you my family tree had some colourful figures in it. How much more information did you want?"

"I thought you meant one of your ancestors was in love with his sister, or liked to hunt naked, or used to let his dogs lick his dinner plates clean! Not that your grandfather almost got himself hanged for treason because he let his horse piss all over the throne!"

"Hang on a minute," Brendal interrupted. "When you say the throne, you mean _the_ throne? Like, the big chair in the Golden Hall?"

Nediriel gave a tight-lipped nod. " _That_ one, yes."

He looked to Duncan, brain seizing again. "Your grandfather rode a _horse_ into the _Golden Hall_?"

Duncan nodded as he sipped his wine. "Kalaster, the 12th Earl of Hamelmark, my late mother's father. He'd fallen out with the King, was trying to make a point."

"Okay, but there's making a point, and there's making a point." One word of Nediriel's sentence popped out. "And you said _almost_. Does that mean he _didn't_ get himself hanged?"

"He talked his way out of it," Haradoc said. "Used a loophole in the Privilege of Peerage laws to persuade the Hall of Lords it wasn't really treason at all."

"That must have been a _hell_ of a loophole."

Haradoc grabbed a bottle to top up his wine. "Still don't know what all the fuss was about. It's just a big fancy seat. And it's not as if Thengel was sitting in it when it happened."

"Have you seen the throne?" an eager Darion asked. "Because Duncan told us you work at the Palace. I've only ever seen the building from the outside. Would love to see the inside as well. It must be amazing."

"I've seen the throne, yes." Brendal took a mouthful of beef, washed it down with some wine. "I've been in the Golden Hall a few times, it's where we have the big staff parties."

"You have _staff parties_?" Astalor asked, as if Brendal had said 'staff orgies' instead.

He nodded. "For Harvest and Yule, aye."

Duncan pointed a carrot-covered fork at him. "You've probably seen the throne more times than I have, then."

"And what does it look like?" Darion asked.

Brendal wasn't quite sure how to answer that; describing furniture wasn't really his thing. "Like Haradoc said, it's just a big fancy seat. A wooden one. All carved on the top and sides, with lots of green and gold paint. With a big green cushion on the seat. And some kind of stone in a slot underneath."

"The King's Stone," Solwen said. "It's supposed to be the stone Eorl sat on when he was crowned."

"Take your word for it. It honestly looks like one of the big paving stones from my parents' back garden."

Duncan tutted, but in a teasing way. "It's _symbolic_ , Brendal. It doesn't have to be fancy."

"Duncan also told us you look after all the King's motorbikes for him," Roddig said.

There didn't seem to be any harm in answering that. "That's right."

"Am I allowed to ask, how many bikes does he own?"

Brendal did a quick count in his head. "He only has four at the moment. What he actively rides. There's another three out back, older stuff he doesn't ride anymore, but hasn't gotten rid of yet." If only so there was something for Lord Elfhelm to ride that nobody would miss if he crashed. "There's also the bikes for all the King's guards—"

"Which you probably shouldn't tell us about," Duncan warned. "Security stuff. Confidential."

He kicked himself. "Of course, yes. Thank you."

"And isn't one of his bikes really fancy?" Darion asked. "Like, a really high-end crotch rocket or something?"

Crotch rocket. Bema. He hated that term. "It's a Firefoot S1000RR. Pretty much the fanciest sports bike money can buy."

"It's _very_ nice," Solwen said, sending Brendal's blood pressure through the roof. What in Eru's name was she doing? She couldn't tell them _that_. How the hell could she ever cover seeing the 'foot?

He wasn't the only one surprised by her words. "You've _seen_ it?" a stunned-looking Darion said.

She nodded. "I have. Just briefly, though. When I picked up the 'fax." She scanned the astonished faces. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I not tell you Brendal fixed the 'fax at the Palace?"

"You didn't, no," a bemused looking Duncan said.

"Must have slipped my mind." She shrugged as she scooped up some corn. "But yeah. When I picked up the 'fax, Brendal let me look at the 'foot."

And there was her lie, based on the truth. One tenth a lie, nine tenths the truth, but Bema, it was still amazing, how well she told it…

"And what's it like?" Darion asked.

She grinned. "Hands down, the sexiest piece of machinery I've _ever_ seen. If it was a man, I'd be trying to have babies with it."

"Well, that doesn't make me feel inadequate at all," Darion muttered.

Frowning, Roddig waved a chicken-covered fork at him. "Isn't that the bike he crashed?"

"It is, yes."

"I hope you didn't have to scrap it."

"We didn't, no." A source of relief for him as much as the King. "The damage was mostly cosmetic, I've been fixing her up, she's almost completely repaired."

Roddig's brows shot up. " _You_ did the work?"

That raised his hackles slightly. "Course I did. I'm the King's bike mechanic. Who else would do it?"

"Well, I'm not sure how I should put it—"

" _Tactfully_ ," Solwen commanded.

"It's just, I didn't think that's the kind of thing you did," Roddig explained.

He'd heard this before. "You thought I did simple mechanical stuff. Brake pads, spark plugs, that kind of thing."

Quietly, "Aye."

"I can do an _awful_ lot more than that."

"Like what?" Roddig almost challenged.

"Well, for starters, I can reprogram an EPROM. That's the fancy memory chip that tells the engine how to work. I take the onboard computer apart, desolder the chip, connect the chip to a programmer, extract the instruction cards that make up the ECU, that's the Engine Control Unit, find the card I want to change and tweak the settings to make the engine run the way I want. Then, I save the card back to the chip, solder the chip back into the bike."

"Why on earth would you do all that?" Haradoc asked.

"To optimize the bike's performance. When I modded the Firefoot, I got an extra seven horses out of it."

"It sounds awfully complicated," Nediriel said.

"It's extremely complicated. If you get it wrong, you can fry your whole bike."

"I'm surprised the King didn't object."

Eyes smiling, Duncan said, "I'm pretty sure His Majesty knew _exactly_ what Brendal was doing."

"I would say that's a terrible accusation to make," Haradoc said, "then I remember the silly man smeared himself into a gravel pit at high speed."

"Were you there when it happened?" Darion asked, eager-eyed again. "Did you see it?"

"I was, and yes, I did."

"It must have been quite frightening," said Erland.

"It wasn't the most relaxing day I've ever had, no."

"Okay, but what's the King like?" Astalor asked, scooping up some butter to spread on his roll. "Is he nice, or is he an arsehole?"

Before Brendal could answer, Solwen stepped in. "Brendal's not supposed to talk about that. He has a non-disclosure clause in his contract."

Astalor made a face. "That's no fun."

"I don't think anyone would object if I told you he's a nice guy," Brendal said. Fastmer would, but Fastmer needed to unclench a little.

"Really?" said Darion, frowning, unconvinced.

"You seem surprised."

"It's just, he's the King. Does he not, like, order you all around all day and threaten to have people who annoy him flogged?"

Duncan sighed as he reached for the wine. "Darion, I think you've been reading too many crappy novels. Nobody flogs people now. It would either be child abuse or actual bodily harm."

"And to be honest, he's not really the ordering people around kind of guy." He spotted a way to make a wee joke. "That's more the Princess Royal's thing."

Darion's eyes lit up. "Oooh, is Princess Eowyn _bolshy_?" To Astalor, he whispered, "I _love_ bolshy women. She could order me around as much as she wants."

"You're sick, man," Astalor muttered.

 _This_ bit, Brendal wouldn't share with Colwenna. "She's, um, _focused_ , I think would be the best way to put it," he said. "She's a woman who really knows what she wants."

"I'm pretty sure what she really wants is me," Darion said, to Roddig this time. "She just doesn't know it yet."

"Darion, _enough_ ," Duncan said, turning stern for a second. "Spare us the details of your libido, please."

"Do you like it?" Astalor asked. "The job, I mean?"

An easy question, thank Bema, with an equally easy response. "I do, very much. I'm the lead bike mechanic, so I get to run my side of the garage however I want, and I work for the King directly, so he's the only client I ever have to deal with."

"But is he a difficult client?" Nediriel asked.

"Not at all, no. He's a bit fussy about some things, mostly about how his bikes are set up, but apart from that, he's happy to just leave me to it."

Erland stabbed right through a potato. "You have _no_ idea, how lucky you are. My boss is a micro-managing asshole. Barely trusts me to change the brew in the coffee machine."

"Where is it you work?" Brendal asked, taking the opportunity to push the conversation in another direction. The more he talked about the King, the higher the chance he would accidentally say something he shouldn't.

"A finance company downtown. Boutique place, but still a bit of a corporate hellhole." Sighing, Erland swirled his wine. "Don't like it that much, was actually thinking I might pack it in."

Nediriel's head whipped up, Duncan's knife froze mid-saw. "Really?" the earl said, neither approving or disapproving.

"I _hate_ it," Erland said. "The work sucks, my boss sucks, the clients suck, and I'm not helping anybody." He mashed his potato into his plate, working out his frustration. "All I'm doing is making rich people richer."

"Says the Earl of Hamelmark's son," murmured Roddig, earning him one of Haradoc's soul-killing glares. Which would probably make even the Princess Royal freeze in her tracks.

Erland continued. "I might follow Solly's lead, take some time off, think about what I want to do next. I'm not sure I even want to work in Finance anymore. I don't really like the subject, the exams are soul destroying, and I can't help but think I should be doing something more useful with my life."

"You're at least eight years too young to be having a mid-life crisis," Solwen said with a smile.

Haradoc gave Erland's shoulder a pat. "You're always welcome up at the holding. You know Jemmy and I would love to have your help with the trees."

Erland pushed his food around his plate. "Appreciate that. Maybe let me think about it?"

"Of course."

Brendal caught the look that passed between Haradoc and Duncan—there was something more going on there…

Looking to Haradoc, Brendal said, "Would you mind if I ask, what you mean when you talk about having help with the trees?"

"Not at all," said Haradoc. "I mean the trees we grow on our land."

"Oh, so, the stuff around the house?"

The patient humour in Haradoc's eyes told him he'd asked a silly question. "There's a wee bit more to our forests than just what's around the house," Haradoc said.

"You have forests?"

"Course we do."

"Where?"

Darion laughed. "Brendal, man, if you've ever been on the A95 or the A96, you've literally driven right through them."

" _Those_ forests?" Brendal exclaimed, looking to Duncan in shock. He knew the roads well, had ridden on them hundreds of times. "Out on the way to the regional park? Those are all yours?"

Duncan nodded, sipping his wine. "On both sides, for quite a distance."

"So, how much land do you actually own?" Quickly, minding his manners, he added, "If that's not a confidential matter, of course."

"Not confidential at all. It's hard to measure precisely, but just over four hundred square kilometres."

Holy Bema, that was an absolute _shitload_ of land. "I had no idea," Brendal said. "I mean, I always knew you owned some land because of the earldom, but I didn't think it was anywhere _near_ that much."

"And before you get any ideas, it's _all_ entailed," Solwen said.

"What does that mean?"

Erland answered. "It means it's all tied to the title." Grinning, he added, "So, when dad dies, the whole lot passes to me. Solly doesn't get so much as a single tree."

That didn't seem very fair. "What, nothing at all?"

Solwen shook her head. "So, if you're dating me just to get rich, you're wasting your time."

Again, with the 'extremely convincing pretending' thing. It was getting to be a little unnerving…

He fell silent, happy to take a few moments to just work through his food. It was all absolutely delicious. The carrots had some kind of glaze he'd never tasted before—something sweet and tangy at the same time. It might be a Gondorian thing. He piled green beans up on his fork, trying to imagine what four hundred square kilometres meant. How much land did Edoras cover? Or Isendale, for that matter? And never mind the actual land—how many trees did they own?

Thinking of trees, some puzzle pieces snapped into place. He looked from Haradoc to Duncan. "Do you grow sorrow bloods, by any chance?"

A proud smile spread on Haradoc's face. "We certainly do. They're our most valuable crop. But what makes you ask?"

"The panelling in the front hall. And the banister on the stair. I thought it looked like sorrow blood wood, but that much would cost an arm and a leg."

"One of the benefits of being one of the country's main suppliers," Solwen said, reaching for the roasted courgettes. "You get to keep as much as you want for yourself."

Brendal gestured at the dining room walls. "That's not sorrow blood, though. It's too light. And the wrong colour." A beautiful colour, but too yellow, not red enough.

"That's golden birch," Duncan said. "Our secondary product, also sells for a really good price. We have singing alder and weeping windroot as well. But the sorrow bloods are where the big money comes from."

Given how much even a sorrow blood coffee table cost, he could only imagine. "It must be a lot of work. Dealing with all that product, I mean."

"A fair amount, aye," said Haradoc. "But we manage."

"The end product certainly looks amazing," Brendal said, waving at the panelling again.

Solwen rapped on the table cover. "Should see what's under this. The purest grade four sorrow blood wood you've ever seen in your life."

"There's _grades_?"

"Four of them, based on the colour," said Haradoc. He grabbed the wine to top up a few people's glasses. "The deeper the colour, the higher the grade. The higher the grade, the better the price."

Brendal looked around the room, trying to spot other sorrow blood pieces, but nothing obvious stood out. An elegant antique sideboard near the window caught his eye, but not the item itself so much as the flowers sitting on top.

They must be the flowers the King had sent. The flowers everyone thought had come from him. And Solwen was right. They were absolutely stunning—full blossomed, and somehow shifting from pink to grey in the light. He couldn't deny, His Majesty had excellent taste. Although, given what motorbikes he'd bought, that really went without saying.

"I see you're admiring your flowers," Nediriel said.

Head on fire, he turned back to answer. "I, um, yes." He cleared his throat, not knowing what the hell else to say. "They're, em, they're pretty, aren't they?"

"They certainly are. Been a long time since anyone bought me flowers like that."

"We talked about this already," a slightly huffy Duncan said. "And we agreed I buy you _plenty_ of flowers."

"But not orchids."

Now Brendal was confused. "But those aren't orchids," he said. A good thing, too. There was no way he could ever afford to buy something that posh. Not without living on water and beans for the rest of the month.

"But _those_ are," said Solwen, pointing. He followed her finger to a vase on the other side of the room—tall, elegant and slender, containing a single, stunning, curving spray of blood-red flowers. "And not just any type of orchids," she added. "Fever Dreams. Only the most expensive orchids on the whole planet."

"And who were they for?" he asked. Not Nediriel, obviously, based on her complaint. Surely, they couldn't be for Solwen as well? How many fake boyfriends could one woman have?

Sighing, Erland raised his hand, cheeks going as red as Brendal's own hair. "For me," he admitted.

"From _Elfhelm_ ," Solwen explained. She stabbed a sprout, eating it right out of the bowl. "Which, in my not-so-humble opinion, just goes to show money can't buy sense."

He knew Elfhelm, so he would have to tread quite carefully here. "Solwen told me the two of you are dating," he said to Erland.

Which didn't impress Astalor at all. "They only met on Thursday night," he said. "That's not dating. That's just hooking up."

Brendal couldn't _entirely_ disagree there…

Darion wagged a fork at his older half-brother. "Just so you know, Roddy and I are taking bets on what he's going to buy you next," he said. "I went for a car, he went for a fancy watch."

"You guys can just fuck off anytime, you know that, right?" Erland sawed off and chewed on some meat. "He's not an idiot. He's just kind. And unlike you emotionally constipated pricks, he's not scared to show how he feels."

"Or to show how mad he is with his money," Duncan said.

"It's not like he doesn't have plenty to spare," said Solwen.

Nediriel sniffed. "And if orchids are what comes out of it, maybe you should try to show how mad you are with your money as well."

"Bema's sake, woman, I'll buy you some bloody orchids, I promise."

Haradoc turned Brendal's way. "Erland tells us this Elfhelm chap is the King's best friend."

"That's right," Brendal said. "They're very close. I think they met in Second School, or something."

"Have you met him?"

He nodded. "A few times, yes. Whenever he and the King go riding together. He comes to the garage, I get a bike ready for him, make sure he's all kitted out." And armed with as much protective equipment Brendal could give him.

"And what's he like?"

Erland made an irritated sound. "Grandpa, I already told you, he's one of the good ones. You won't need to threaten to kill him when you meet him, I promise."

"Yes, it's only Brendal he does that to," said Solwen drily.

"Oh, please tell me you didn't?" Nediriel said, turning to Haradoc with a stunned look.

"It was just a tiny, wee threat. And I was only kidding." Haradoc gave Brendal a wink. "Brendal knows I would never lay a finger on him. I like him too much. And I wouldn't want to upset his mother."

Roddig snickered. "That's probably Brendal's job."

Duncan rubbed his brows. "Brendal, on behalf of all of us, I apologize for my father's behaviour. Whatever he said, it was extremely inappropriate."

"It's quite alright. I actually found it amusing," he said, which was only half a lie.

"That being said, if anything bad happens to my daughter while you're dating her, I _will_ have to kill you."

"Okay, enough," Solwen said, eyes blazing. "Nobody's killing anyone. Nobody's _threatening_ anyone. Not Brendal, and not Elfhelm when you meet him, either." She pointed her fork at Haradoc and her dad. "So, the two of you can just shut the hell up."

"Hear, hear," Nediriel murmured.

The fork singled out Astalor next. "And not a word out of you."

Astalor scrunched his face. "Why the hell would I threaten Brendal?"

"I don't know. But just in case you were thinking about it. In case you're still mad at him because he kicked your arse in that game." She pointed her fork around the whole table. " _Nobody_ threatens Brendal, okay? Or you'll have _me_ to deal with."

To Darion, Roddig whispered, "I think it's because she likes to do it herself."

Scowling, Solwen picked a potato out of a bowl to hurl it full force at her stepbrother. Roddig ducked; the potato sailed over his head, smacked into the wall behind him with a damp 'phat' and dropped to the floor. "You can shut your fat useless mouth," Solwen said. "Nobody _ever_ needs to hear your opinion."

"Okay, _enough_ ," an exasperated Duncan said. "This is supposed to be a civilized family dinner. No swearing," he said, glaring at Erland. "No smartarse comments," was his order to Roddig. "And this isn't the zoo, so no throwing the food," he said to Solwen. Sighing, he turned to Brendal. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. I was trying to be funny. It was inappropriate. And my apologies for the behaviour as well. We're usually much better than this."

Astalor snorted. "Like hell we are."

"It's all good," Brendal said. "No harm done." Except maybe to Colwenna's liver, because she was going to need a stiff drink or six when he told her about all this on Monday.

"So, you've met Elfhelm, and he's nice," Nediriel recapped.

Brendal gave a quick nod. "I have, yes."

"Not stuck up?"

"Not that I've ever noticed. He's always been really kind to me."

Duncan nodded while he chewed on some food. "I've only ever heard good things about him. And he seemed like a perfectly pleasant young man when we talked."

"When was that?" said Nediriel.

"Thursday. After my speech in the Hall." Duncan grinned. "After my moment of glorious political triumph."

"Glorious, right, let's go with that," Solwen muttered.

"Did you hear about that?" Haradoc asked him, beaming with pride a little again. "About how Duncan demolished that silly Colafell woman's petition?"

Colafell. Petition. He'd read about that—something to do with the King's cousin. But it was politics, and politics wasn't really his thing any more than history was, so he hadn't paid much attention to it. But everyone else at the table obviously had, and it sounded as if Duncan had done something important to it. Except, he had no idea what that something was.

Duncan's face fell. "Did Solly not tell you about it?"

Brendal's mouth went dry; his heart started to race. What the fuck was he supposed to say here? He forced himself to stay calm, going over what Solwen had told him, letting his 'special training' kick in. Smiling sheepishly, he said, "It's entirely possible she did, but I'm ashamed to say I don't remember."

"We don't talk about politics." Solwen added, backing him up. Her tone was flat and offhand, as if she was discussing the weather. "I get enough of that at home."

Duncan showed a frown. "Not even when it's something about the King?"

"Nope."

She left it at that—a shining example of her 'don’t over-explain' advice.

"Huh."

"What _do_ the two of you talk about then?" Astalor asked.

To his relief, Solwen answered again. "Bikes, mostly. Movies. Books. Where we've lived. What roads we've ridden. How much we hate Tronvene."

The mention of Tronvene produced an instant response. Every man around the table snorted or sneered. "Fuck Tronvene," Darion muttered.

This would be a house full of Isendale Rovers supporters, then. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

"Yes, that's pretty much what one of us always ends up saying." Smiling, Solwen offered Brendal the sprouts, now down to the last half dozen. "You want anymore?"

He held up a hand to refuse. "Not for me, thanks."

She looked to Erland. "So, when are you meeting Elfhelm again?" she asked, pouring out a few sprouts.

And that was it—a potentially ruinous question asked, a small lie told, a quick diversion leading into a full-on redirection. She made it look so bloody easy…

"Not sure," Erland said. "We're still trying to work that out. Maybe tomorrow night."

"Will I get to meet him?" Nediriel said.

"Assuming it actually goes somewhere, yes," Erland said. "But don't hold your breath. We're taking it slow."

Roddig snorted. "Not if he bought you Fever Dream orchids after your first date you're not."

"He _must_ have put out," Darion whispered.

The potato came from Erland this time, caught Darion smack on the side of the head. "Ow," Darion muttered, wincing, shaking the potato away, letting it fall onto his plate.

Erland looked to Solwen. "What was that phrase you just used on Roddig again?"

"I told him to shut his fat, useless mouth."

Nediriel sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose and reached for the nearest bottle of wine.

"Both of you," Erland said, pointing to his half-brothers. "Consider this a good opportunity to just shut the hell up."

"Yes, please do," Nediriel said, shooting each twin the mildest of glares. "Don't put me in a position where I have to phone your mother and tell her what a pain you've both been."

"That reminds me," Solwen said, snagging the last rolled pudding. "What are your folks doing tonight?"

"Not sure," said Roddig. His sarcastic smirk came out again. "Probably having a dirty night in."

Duncan's fork clattered on his plate. "Okay, _enough_."

"I think they're actually going out for a nice dinner," Darion said. "Dad was trying to book a table at this fancy new place over in Seigoth Village. It's just been listed in some food guide thing, mum's been badgering him about it."

"What's it called?" Nediriel asked.

"Buggered if I know. But it's supposed to be really upscale. One of those places where they charge you a hundred pounds for an ice cube and eight bites of food."

Nediriel was undeterred. "We should check it out," she said to her husband. "When we're home for Midsummer."

Duncan's face lit up. "And speaking of being home for Midsummer, have you heard who else is going to be in Isendale for the break?" he said to the whole table.

Brendal's stomach did a slow flip. He knew _exactly_ where this was going—back to the King, and back into cover-blowing territory. He snuck a sideways look at Solwen, who gave him a reassuring smile.

"Who?" Astalor said.

"His Blessed Majesty is," Duncan revealed.

"What, like, the King?"

"Yes, Astalor. The King. The guy who lives in the big fancy house at the top of the hill."

"Why?" said Darion.

"Probably because of what happened in the election," was Haradoc's explanation. Entirely accurate, as it happened. "It'll be his way of trying to keep the March sweet."

Roddig was no more impressed than his brother. "It's going to take more than a holiday in Isendale to do that."

"It's not as if the situation in the March is his fault," Solwen said. "It's been going on for decades, and he's only been King for the last eight years. Plus, he's not allowed to get involved in political matters, so taking a holiday in the March is one of the few things he can actually do."

"Okay, but how can a king _not_ be allowed to get involved in political matters?" Astalor wanted to know. "Isn't that what a king's for?"

"Not in Rohan, it isn't," Erland said. "We have a Constitution, and the Constitution says the King's not allowed to interfere, because all political decisions have to be made by government officials."

"Well, _that's_ stupid."

"No, that's _democracy_ ," Nediriel said. "You want to live somewhere the king has the right to do whatever he wants, and nobody can tell him not to, you should move to Gondor."

"Okay, but never mind all that boring political crap," Darion said, perhaps forgetting he was having dinner in a politician's house. "The important thing is, where's he going to stay? When he comes to Isendale, I mean?"

Mischief in his eyes, Duncan turned Brendal's way. "I think Brendal might be able to answer that question for you."

Eight people turned to stare at him, expecting him to discuss an issue he absolutely couldn't discuss. His new training kicked in again—he went for the ignorance option this time. "I'm not sure I follow," he said.

Kindly, Haradoc said, "It's fine, Brendal, you don't have to pretend."

"I don't?" was all he could think of to say.

"Your mum already told us last week that you're going to the March with the King."

His _mum_ , Bema. He was never telling her anything confidential ever again. "The thing is, I'm not supposed to talk about it. For security reasons. If I tell you, and Algrin finds out, they'll hang me from the gates by my b—my thumbs."

"Algrin?" Erland prompted.

"Algrin Paxter," Duncan said. "He's the Head of Security at the Palace. Never met him, but he has a reputation as a bit of a hardass."

It was a good opening—Brendal took it and ran. "He is, and he's _really_ strict about this kind of stuff," he said. "He would have me fired. I shouldn't even have told my mum I was coming. I was just trying to make her feel better."

"Then, you shouldn't say anything more," Solwen said. "Your job comes first. And it's not as if we really need to know where you'll be staying."

"Will you at least tell us what suburb?" Astalor said. "Is he going to be close to our house?"

Oh, how he wanted to laugh. The lad was going to shit himself when he found out…

"What part of Brendal's answer did you not understand?" Nediriel said to her son. "Just leave it, please. It's only two weeks away. Wherever he's going, you'll find out soon enough."

"Do _you_ know?" Darion said to Erland.

Erland frowned. "Why the hell would _I_ know where he's going?"

"Well, isn't your new boyfriend the King's best friend?"

"Uh huh?"

"So, wouldn't the King have told him where he's going?"

"I've no idea. Maybe. But we haven't really talked about it."

"Are you sure you can't tell us?" Astalor wheedled.

Brendal smiled. "Sorry. I can't." He nodded at Nediriel, smiling his thanks. "Like your mum said, you'll find out soon enough."

"And speaking of people not knowing things," Duncan started, looking at his oldest son. "Am I allowed to talk to Elfhelm's dad at work? Or, should I just avoid him completely for the next couple of weeks?"

Erland's eyes widened slightly, he dropped his food-laden fork on his plate. "Shit. I hadn't really thought about that."

"Good thing you've got people to do your thinking for you, then, isn't it?" was Solwen's response.

Ignoring his sister, Erland told his dad, "It would be better if you avoided talking to him for now. Give Elfhelm some time to tell him. Like Solly said yesterday, it might not be an easy sell."

"Why?" Darion demanded. "Are his parents snobs?"

"They're the Earl and Countess of Elgoll," Solwen said, as if that was all anyone needed to know.

"So?"

"So, of _course_ they're snobs."

"They're _not_ snobs," Duncan told her firmly. "They're posh, yes, but calling them snobs implies they're cruel, when they're actually both really kind people."

"You've met them?" Brendal asked, remembering Colwenna's comments about how fancy they were.

"I see the Earl every day at work," Duncan said, as if the Earl of Elgoll was just another guy in his office. Which, to Duncan, he more or less was. "But I've met the Countess a few times as well."

"Elfhelm'll have to tell them before the Midsummer party," Solwen said. "Unless the two of you want to spend the whole night pretending you don't know each other."

They would be in good company if they did—Solwen and the King were going to have to do the same thing themselves. What Brendal wouldn't give to see that farcical work of theatre play out…

"Where's that going to be?" Darion asked.

"It's up at the Palace," Astalor said. "And everyone but me's been invited."

"Asta," Duncan said, firm but gentle at the same time. "We talked about this earlier. Your turn will come."

Roddig tried to help. "You're a bit young," he pointed out. "And it'll be boring as fuck."

"I'd forgotten about the party thing," Erland said. "I'll talk to Elfhelm about it, see what he wants to do. No huge rush. It's still a week and a half way."

Darion's tone was desert-dry. "At the rate you're going, you'll have gotten engaged, bought an apartment together, fallen out and broken up by then."

"At least I have a boyfriend," Erland shot back. "Last time I looked, the only person you were engaged to was your right hand."

"Okay, can we just _not_?" Nediriel said. "Please? Keep it at least vaguely clean?"

Erland grimaced. "Sorry."

"I'm sure the conversation will be _amazingly_ clean at the Elgoll house tonight," Duncan said. "Erella Darkfald told me they're having a bunch of people over." He turned Brendal's way. "Including the King, I think."

Brendal nodded as he sipped his wine. "Someone at work told me that, yes. They said it would be a bit posh. A black tie event."

"At a minimum," Solwen said. "Might even be a white tie thing."

"What's the difference?" Brendal asked.

"White tie's more formal. Men have to wear the full penguin suit with all their fancy ribbons and medals, women have to wear a full-length dress with a tiara."

"A _tiara_?"

"But only if the event is in somebody's house," Nediriel added. "If it's in a hotel, wearing a tiara is considered vulgar."

More of those stupid protocol rules. "Solwen was telling me about some of this stuff. About all the rules you have, for dinner and food and clothes."

"And what did you make of it all?" said Duncan, lips curling in a slight grin.

"Should I give you the honest answer, or the diplomatic one?"

"Brendal, we're _Hamelmarks_ ," Solwen said, offended. "And you're from the March. The honest one, please."

They couldn't say he hadn't warned them. "I think the whole lot of you are barking. I think if you use your free time to decide how to eat peas, you all need to get a proper job to keep yourselves busy."

Chest bouncing in a silent laugh, Haradoc raised his glass. "Oh, Brendal, lad, I'll drink to that."

"I won't deny some of the rules are really silly," Duncan said. "Especially the one about peas."

"I don't understand why anyone even cares," Brendal added. "I mean, what does it matter if you eat peas with a spoon?"

"Always how I eat them," said Darion, using his fork to mash his carrots and potatoes together. "Don't know why everyone gets so puckered about it."

Haradoc speared another slice of chicken. "My theory is, it gives them all something to do. Most Landed folk don't work, you see. They just live off the family money."

"Which, before anyone starts bitching, I am absolutely _not_ doing," Solwen said. "I'm living off my own money instead."

She was a woman of independent means, then. The next time they went to the pub, he would definitely let her buy the first round. And maybe even the second. "So, they make up these rules to keep themselves busy?" Brendal asked.

Haradoc nodded. "I think so, aye."

"You ever want to feel better about yourself, go look for the Courtland's column in the Friday edition of _The Edoras Times_ ," said Erland. "It's all just etiquette advice, people writing in and asking what the posh way to do something is. You'll piss yourself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. I swear, they've covered everything except how to fart."

"Posh folk don't fart," Roddig declared. "Everybody knows that."

Duncan snickered. "The Countess of Elgoll doesn't. She's far too elegant for that. She probably had a fartectomy the day before she married Tommen."

Solwen collapsed in a fit of giggles. "A fartectomy. Oh, man. That's a good one. I'll ask Elisend the next time I see her. Her mum's probably had one as well."

"They probably asked for a two-for-one deal," said Haradoc, making Duncan snort into his wine so hard some of it splashed up on his cheeks.

"No body functions at the table, please," pleaded Nediriel. "Let's try to keep it _slightly_ classy?"

"And enough with making fun of the Elgolls as well," Erland said. "How would you feel, if you knew they were sitting in their dining room, talking about and making fun of us?"

Duncan shrugged. "Can't say I would really care. Their opinion of me isn't important. They can talk about us as much as they want."

"At least they'd be talking about someone interesting for once," Solwen said.

Erland sighed. "Interesting, right."

Interesting. That was going to be a word Brendal used a lot, when he described all this to Colwenna. And a few other, ruder words as well…


	77. Chapter 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final (long) chapter about the Solstice dinners - gossip abounds at the Elgoll house, Eomer plans, Brendal needs some fresh air.
> 
> Warning for minor drug use.

Measures of port and sherry were poured, pots of tea and coffee came out, plates of biscuits and mints were delivered.

"Thank you, Othborn," the Countess of Elgoll said to the uniformed man at the door. "We'll ring if we need you again."

Othborn gave a smart nod. "Of course, My Lady." He aimed a bow at Eowyn, a deeper one at Eomer, then gracefully backed out of the room, pulling the double doors as he went.

Finally, after four exquisite courses over two hours, the best part of the dinner was here. The food had been served and cleared away and the serving staff had withdrawn for the night, leaving the guests to 'fend' for themselves. And, more importantly, to speak without the risk of being overheard. Now, they could _really_ talk. _Gossip_ , one might even say.

But a nod to the host and hostess first. In his seat at the top of the table (he'd lost _that_ argument in the first thirty seconds), Eomer raised his glass of port, saluting the woman in the seat to his right. "Countess, as always, thank you for an absolutely wonderful meal. I can't remember when I last ate so well."

An approving murmur ran through the room. "Hear, hear," Erling Rathenow—Mordulf's father—said.

"Do you think your cook would let me steal the recipe for the dessert?" a hopeful Sigrene Thelanor asked. "I've never had lava cakes that moist before."

The cakes had been good, but in Eomer's opinion, not _quite_ as good as the version they served in the Palace.

Aldona Elgoll smiled. "Let me see if I can talk Faramon into giving it up." Which everyone at the table knew was the polite, Landed way of saying 'not a fucking chance'.

"And thank you, Tommen, for hosting us tonight, and allowing us to share in your family dinner," Eomer added, raising his glass to Lord Elgoll now. "You always make us feel so welcome. We're honoured, truly."

Tommen dipped his head, chest puffing a little with pride. "Your Majesty, as always, the honour is ours."

"And please thank the staff for us as well," Eowyn added. "They all did such a wonderful job. Especially with the table. So beautifully set."

"That's all Othborn's work," said Elfhelm around a mouthful a mints. "He's a demon with a set square and a ruler."

Aldona shot her firstborn the mildest of glares, whether for the 'helpful' remark or for talking while he was eating, Eomer wasn't quite sure. "I'll make sure to pass your comments on to the staff," she told Eowyn with a gracious smile.

Eowyn turned to Tommen. "Can I ask, did you do the flowers yourself?" she said, gesturing at the centrepiece, made of various beautiful blooms, but with a spray of pink and purple orchids on top. "They're lovely. And the scent is amazing."

"I supplied the flowers, but I left the final arranging to Bronvell. One of our gardeners." Tommen topped up Eowyn's sherry. "An absolute whizz with table settings."

"She did a wonderful job." Eowyn sighed. "I'm terrible with flowers. I know what I like, but I never know what to buy for what occasion."

"Isn't that why you have staff?" Cenefer said. "So you have someone to deal with the details for you?"

Cenefer, Bema. As blunt as a well-used knife and as forthright as a four-year-old child.

Except, Eowyn could be just as blunt back; one immovable object meeting another. "Yes, but that's a little impersonal, don't you think?" she said. "I'd much rather choose flowers for someone myself, even if they're the wrong type, than have someone who doesn't know the recipient choose them for me."

Cenefer gave the smallest of shrugs—more a twitch of her shoulders—not agreeing, but not quite willing to challenge the heir to the Crown in front of her parents.

"I agree," Elfhelm said. "I choose what's pretty and colourful, don't worry too much about what message they send."

Said the man who'd sent Fever Dream orchids to mark a first date. The only message being sent there was 'look at how much money I have'. He could have sent something normal instead. Like red roses, or pink carnations, or maybe even shadow lilies. But, _no_. He'd sent _Fever Dream orchids_ , of all things. Which wouldn't have been so bad if Elfhelm had been just a little less smug about the whole thing. But he'd been almost insufferably pleased with himself, making 'supportive' remarks about Eomer's own flower selection, which looked like weeds picked out of a field in comparison to Elfhelm's choice.

But here was a chance for Eomer to get his own back. To remind Elfhelm who was the Lord, and who was the King.

"Speaking of flowers," Eomer started. "I should tell you all about a convo Elf and I had yesterday morning." The text convo in which they'd swapped notes not just about what flowers they'd sent, but also the things they'd done to and with their respective Hamelmarks to warrant sending the flowers at all. It had been rather an interesting exchange; Algrin would have a fit if he knew even half of what they'd written.

Elfhelm's hand froze over the plate of mints. "Which convo was that?" he said, taking a mint, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'm not sure I remember."

Fucking _liar_ …

"We were discussing flowers," Eomer explained to the whole table. "Specifically, what type of flower a gentleman should send to communicate his… _intentions_ to a new romantic partner." He held up a hand. "A purely theoretical question, so don't get excited. I think our next question was whether we'd prefer to fight one horse-sized duck or one hundred duck-sized horses." He brought his hand to his chest. "Speaking personally, I think shadow lilies are an _excellent_ choice."

Tommen nodded. "I concur. Lovely to look at, they cost just enough to make your intentions clear, but not so much you look vulgar. And they _are_ supposed to be for new lovers." He frowned at Elfhelm. "What did you choose?"

"I didn't choose anything," said Elfhelm, shooting Eomer a 'fuck you' glare. As the son of an avid flower grower, this was a test he couldn't afford to fail. "I mean, I rattled through a few types of flowers, of course, but I wasn't serious about it. Like His Majesty said, it was a purely theoretical conversation."

"Orchids," Eomer declared. "Fever Dreams, to be exact."

"Fever Dreams?" said Cenefer, brows shooting up. "For a new boyfriend? Are you fucking mad?"

"Cenefer," Aldona snapped. "Language, please."

"Fever Dreams are absolutely beautiful flowers," said Elfhelm, defensive.

"Yes, but a dozen of them cost almost as much as a house." Cenefer threw up her hands. "Why don't you just buy them a fancy Lasgalene watch while you're at it? Or a new car? Maybe pay off their mortgage as well?" She grabbed a biscuit and bit it in half. "Absolutely ridiculous," she muttered. "And to think, _he's_ the one who'll get the title and money."

"Perhaps Elfhelm is simply a rather passionate man," Erella Darkfald said from behind her cup. "Shadow lilies are beautiful, but there's no mistaking what Fever Dreams say."

"I think they say you have shit for brains," Cenefer tartly shot back.

Erella shrugged, not taking the bait. "Perhaps. But another, deeper message as well."

"Thank you, Erella," Elfhelm said, glaring at Eomer again. "That's _exactly_ the argument I was trying to make. You're all free to make your own choice, but I would personally go with something spectacular, because I would want the person to know _exactly_ how I felt. I mean, shadow lilies are lovely, don't get me wrong, but a little, how should I put it, unimaginative as well? Predictable, even?"

Unimaginative. Predictable. That cheeky, no-good, two-faced prick…

"I prefer to think of them as steady instead," Eomer added. "It's not so much about imagination as showing the recipient you're not the hysterical, reckless, hot-headed type. That you have feelings, but can still be relied upon to make sensible, appropriate choices."

Elfhelm sighed. "And that's fine, don't get me wrong, but I think when one is newly in love, one should be just a tiny bit hot-headed, yes? Be at least a little bit ready to do risky things in risky places?"

'Risky places' meaning 'on antique office desks', of course…

"I have to ask, is there something going on here the rest of us are missing?" a frowning Mordulf said, looking from Eomer to Elfhelm and back. "Because I feel like the two of you are speaking in code."

Eomer grinned. "No code, I promise. Don't mind us, we're just bullshitting each other."

"His Majesty's simply annoyed that I have better taste in flowers than him," Elfhelm said.

But the same taste in siblings, it seemed…

"What does it even matter?" Cenefer said. " It's not as if either of you are making an effort to find a real person to send your flowers to."

"Cenefer," Tommen softly warned.

"No, Lady Cenefer makes a good point," Sigrene Thelanor said. She turned a displeased look on her son. "And I could make the same complaint about you."

As Eowyn laughed, Mordulf sighed. "Mother, I've been living abroad and serving in the Army for the last ten years. It's been rather hard to think about marriage."

Sigrene sniffed as she reached for a mint. "All three of you are as bad as each other. All thirty-four, all either the holder or the heir of your family title, and all still firmly single. _Shocking_ behaviour. It would never have been allowed in my day."

"Mother, your day was only forty years ago," Mordulf protested. "The seventies. You wore mini-skirts, for Bema's sake. Stop talking as if you grew up in the Folcwinian Era not being able to show your wrists or ankles, please."

Erella reached for a biscuit, snapped it in two, carefully dunked one half in her tea. "I'm sure all of them will find their way eventually, if we all just leave them to figure it out for themselves," she said, nibbling at the dunked half. "Thirty-four isn't seventy-four. Plenty of time for all of you yet."

"It's not even Elfhelm that needs to worry," said Cenefer. "Not like he's going to marry a woman and father a child." She pointed at Mordulf and Eomer. "But you two definitely need to get a move on."

So, now Cenefer was nagging at him as well. Wonderful. At this rate, they should just make a public competition of it…

"Yes, and speaking of getting a move on," Elfhelm said, looking from Cenefer to Brentan. "Have you two set a date for the wedding yet?"

Brentan answered. "We've been looking at dates in October. But there's no huge rush. We might wait until next spring instead."

"Don't wait too long," Elfhelm warned his sister. "You're almost thirty. Your eggs will start drying up soon. And you need to have at least two," he added. "An heir and a spare. None of this single child malarkey."

"Yes, because having you as an older brother hasn't been the world's best advert for sticking to one."

Eowyn snorted into her tea.

"Don't get mouthy with me," Elfhelm warned. "Just remember, if push comes to shove, I can still make sure you and your children don't inherit the earldom at all."

Cenefer sighed. "Elfhelm, unless you've figured out how to make a baby with another man, you're talking out of the hole in your rear."

"Not that, no. But there's nothing to stop me from marrying a woman and getting the turkey baster out."

Tommen—the soul of genteel conversation—grimaced. "Children, can we stick to subjects more suitable for the dinner table, please?"

"Oh, don't stop on my account, please," said Eowyn as she sipped on her tea, both literally and figuratively. "I'm rather enjoying all this."

But of course she was. Roasting older brothers was one of the few subjects on which she and Cenefer would always agree…

"And it's not as if you would have to look far to find a woman," Cenefer said. Her smile to Elfhelm was spiteful—she was about to wreak her revenge for the egg remark. "I'm sure if you asked her nicely, Solwen Hamelmark would help."

Eomer—drinking at the time she spoke—coughed his tea all over the table. He almost dropped his cup in his rush to put it down, covered his mouth and hacked up the rest of the liquid he'd just inhaled. Eyes watering, gasping for breath, he thumped himself a few times on his chest.

Eowyn sighed. "Thirty-four, and he still hasn't figured out when to breathe and when to swallow. It's a miracle he's even alive."

Ignoring her, Eomer held up a hand. "All good," he gasped, coughing again, wiping tears from his eyes. "Sorry. That just went down the wrong way."

A grin twitched on Elfhelm's lips—Eomer knew what filthy response his friend was itching to make…

"Why on _earth_ would Solwen Hamelmark want to have Elfhelm's baby?" a horrified-looking Mordulf said, asking the question everyone was dying to ask.

Cenefer smirked. "Didn't you know, she's Elfhelm's new best friend?"

"She's not my new best friend," Elfhelm sternly corrected. "She's just someone I know. There's a difference."

"You told me earlier you consider her a friend," Tommen said, which made Eomer wonder what the fuck kind of conversations the Elgolls had all been having. Was there something going on here he wasn't aware of? Did he need to have a quiet word in his best friend's ear?

"Maybe friend was too strong a word," Elfhelm added. "Let's call her an acquaintance instead." He grabbed the port to pour himself another measure. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd quite like to change the subject." His eyes slid to Eomer, making it clear His Majesty had a vested interest in leading the way.

Except, Erella wasn't done with it yet. "If it's any consolation, Elfhelm, I don't think she'd be interested in having a baby with you."

"Oh? And why's that?" Eowyn asked. "I mean, apart from the obvious issues, of course."

Erella blew on her tea. "I think her new boyfriend might have something to say about it."

Eomer said nothing, but sat in his seat, too shocked to move a muscle, tea cooling in front of him, heart pounding like a drum, every cell in his body screaming in panic. Holy Bema. Erella knew Solwen had a new boyfriend. That boyfriend being _him_. How did she know? How _much_ did she know? Was she about to drop them right in it?

"See?" Cenefer said, turning to Elfhelm. "Even Solwen Hamelmark can find someone to put up with her. There's hope for you yet."

"Cenefer," said Tommen sternly. "Enough."

"Erella, dear, who on earth are you talking to that you know that?" a bemused Aldona said.

"Just her father," Erella said.

But Solwen hadn't told her father who she was dating. She'd put some kind of cover in place, maybe even given him another man's name. So, Erella couldn't possibly know the full truth—she could only know the cover story at best. Saying a prayer of thanks to all the Maiar, Eomer let out a silent sigh of relief.

"Why on earth is the Earl of Hamelmark gossiping to you about who his daughter is dating?" Sigrene Thelanor said, apparently forgetting how much gossiping she engaged in herself.

"Because she was refusing to tell him who her new boyfriend was, and it was making Duncan rather irate."

Tommen reached for a biscuit. "I can't imagine why he would even care. She's in her late twenties. A grown adult. Her personal life is none of his business."

"I'll remember that," Cenefer muttered into her glass.

Erella poured herself some more tea, added a half-spoon of sugar, gently stirred it in. "Normally, I would agree, but when one's father is Duncan Hamelmark, one's personal life is _absolutely_ his business."

"Oh, so, his fondness for getting into other people's affairs extends to his children, then?" said Erling.

Erella nodded. "It certainly does. The difference is, unlike other people, his children have figured out how to keep him at bay. The oldest two, at least. They know how to do an end-run around him, and I don't think he really likes it."

Mordulf looked troubled. "It seems a little inappropriate, to be as nosy as that."

"It's because of what happened with his wife," Erella said. "I think it's not so much that he's nosy, and more that he's trying to protect them. Especially Solwen."

"Can certainly understand that," Sigrene murmured. " _Terrible_ business."

Eowyn asked, "What _did_ happen with his wife?"

Silence; the adults exchanged awkward glances until Aldona revealed, "She was murdered."

Eomer's stomach heaved. No wonder Solwen hadn't really said much about her mum back at their first date. That was even worse than how his own mother had died. "I didn't know that," he said. "I mean, I knew his wife had died, but I thought it was an accident."

"It was, in a way. A mugging gone wrong." Aldona shrugged. "She went out to meet some friends for drinks, never came home."

A mugging gone wrong. That was horrific—the kind of stupid, random thing every parent lived in fear of. No wonder her father was so protective of her. "Can't say I blame the earl for wanting to protect his daughter, then. I'm sure in his shoes, I'd feel the same way."

"Yes, but worrying about your daughter being out at night is a different thing from needing to know exactly who her boyfriend is," said Mordulf.

"Did he ever find out?" Elfhelm said in a neutral tone. "Who the boyfriend is?"

Erella sighed. "He's Duncan. Of course he did. Pretty sure he nagged the poor girl about it until she 'fessed up."

This could be tricky. Solwen had told him her cover story was something he didn't need to concern himself with. But if Erella was about to offer up the information, what the hell was he supposed to do? Get up and walk out of the room?

"And who's the lucky man?" Calarion—Erella's husband—asked.

Smiling, Erella turned his way. "Someone His Majesty knows, as it happens."

So, his instincts at that brunch had been right. "Really? And who's that?" Eomer asked, heart pounding in anticipation.

"A man called Brendal?"

Now, it was Eowyn who coughed up her tea. She slammed her cup down, spluttering, covering her mouth with her hand, waving a worried Tommen back into his seat. Once she'd regained her composure, she croaked, "I'm sorry, did you just say Solwen Hamelmark is dating _Brendal_?"

Erella frowned. "I'm quite sure that was his name. Duncan said he works in the Palace garage, and he's someone they've known for years?"

That was definitely right. Stunned, speechless, Eomer stared at Elfhelm; slack-mouthed, Elfhelm stared back. Was that who Solwen's cover story was? _Brendal_? His own goddamn bike mechanic? No wonder she hadn't wanted to tell him about it. And holy Bema, was that why Brendal had gone to the Hamelmarks for Solstice dinner? Was it all part of some cunning plan? Did Brendal know about the cover story as well? Was he in on it? Was one of Eomer's own employees pretending to be his girlfriend's boyfriend behind his back?

Aldona turned to Eomer. "Do you know him? This Brendal man?"

Still too shocked to speak, Eomer nodded. Words came enough to say, "He's my bike mechanic."

"Yes, of _course_ ," Erella said with a victorious smile. "That was it, he's a biker, like her."

"Classy," Cenefer said. "I mean, I know the Hamelmarks don't exactly mix with the cream of the crop, but a _bike mechanic_?" She snorted. "I'm sure her father's thrilled."

That was too much for Eomer, but fortunately, for Erella as well. In a stiff tone, the Countess said, "Duncan's not remotely concerned about who and what Brendal is. All he wants is for his daughter to be safe and happy."

"I can't speak for the happy part, but she'll definitely be safe," said Eowyn. "Brendal's a good man." She waved at Eomer. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Eomer's brain was still half-screaming, half-rebooting. "Um, yes. Yes, he is, absolutely. A very good man."

"Okay, but are we talking about the same person here?" said Elfhelm, caught between outrage and amazement. "That's the Brendal _I've_ met, right? The one from the March, with the red hair and all the tattoos, whose two languages are sarcasm and cursing?"

Eomer nodded. "That Brendal, yes."

"Well," said Sigrene, smiling like a gossiping cat who'd just gotten into the gossiping cream. "I'm sure Lady Solwen will do _marvellously_ with a man like that."

"Meaning?" Eomer said, slightly more sharply than he'd intended. But they were talking about his girlfriend, for Bema's sake. And his bike mechanic. And the only person who got to diss Brendal here was him.

"If he's from the March, I mean," Sigrene hastily explained. "You know how they tend to stick together."

" _And_ he's clan," Erella put in. "A Giantsbane, I think Duncan said. One of his cousins on his father's side."

"A tattooed bike mechanic from a clan who's also a cousin," Cenefer said. She laughed, sighed, shook her head and sipped her port. "Wait until I tell Winnick. He's going to burst a blood vessel laughing."

"Brendal's not clan," Eomer said. "His mother's a Giantsbane, but he's not."

Cenefer shrugged. "Still a really good story."

"Not entirely sure I'd want to date my cousin," said Mordulf. "That seems a little bit off."

"You know what they say." Eowyn downed the rest of her sherry. "If you can't keep it in your pants, keep it in your family."

Cenefer giggled into her drink. "That's a good one. I'll have to remember that."

"I think they're only third or fourth cousins," Eomer said, trying to sound as if he knew only the vaguest of facts. "The relationship isn't close."

"It _is_ slightly vexing, though," Eowyn said.

"What, that they're only third or fourth cousins?" asked Brentan.

"That she has a boyfriend," Eowyn explained. "If I'd known that, I wouldn't have bothered inviting her to the Midsummer party."

Tommen's hand paused reaching for the pot of tea. "You invited Solwen Hamelmark to the Midsummer party?"

"I certainly did. But in my defense, only because I thought she was single." She flashed Eomer a spiteful smile. "When one's brother refuses to buckle down and do his duty, one must take creative measures."

"I'm not sure 'creative' is the word I would use," said Aldona.

"Mama," Elfhelm said. "Remember what I said on Thursday?"

Aldona raised a hand. "Of course, no badmouthing the Hamelmarks, apologies darling."

"Sorry, why are we not badmouthing the Hamelmarks?" Mordulf asked, confused.

"But it's so easy," Cenefer muttered. "And _so_ much fun."

"Cenefer, if you can't be polite, you can leave the table," said Tommen in a no-nonsense tone, making it clear she'd run out of strikes. "If you want to be mean to people, please go do it elsewhere."

"You can't deny, they _do_ have a reputation for being a rather troublesome family," Sigrene said.

Except, in Eomer's experience, so did half the Landed Houses. Including Sigrene's own. "Having a reputation for being something isn't the same as actually being it. Everyone in this room should understand the dangers of confusing the two."

Forcing a smile, Sigrene said, "Of course, sir, yes."

"Have you met any of the Hamelmarks, sir?" Erling said.

To lie, or not to lie; the former seemed best. "I haven't, no," said Eomer, shaking his head.

"Not recently, at least," Eowyn corrected. "You met them all at the Earl's confirmation. But that was ten years ago, so I suppose it doesn't really count."

Cenefer's eyes lit up; Eomer could just smell what she was going to say next.

Trying to divert from an analysis of the Thelden business, Eomer set another cat amongst the pigeons instead. "And we'll both meet all of them soon enough, at the Midsummer party."

Aldona jerked back. "I'm sorry. Did you just say _all_ of them?"

"Actually, not all of them, no. But the Earl and the Countess, yes. And the two oldest kids. Lady Solwen and"—he snapped his fingers, looking at Elfhelm—"remind me again, what the older son's called? Edmund? Elmund? You met him on Thursday, right?"

"Erland," Elfhelm said, giving Eomer his best 'I will fucking kill you' dead-eyed glare.

"Erland, of course."

"That was generous of you," Sigrene said, except by 'generous' she meant 'utterly mad'.

Eomer shrugged as he sipped his tea. He was fast running out of patience for this snobbery shit; time to do a Cenefer and just get blunt with people instead. "Was Eowyn's idea. She invited the two kids first, probably to have some singles to mingle. But she just invited the Earl and the Countess this week." He frowned at Eowyn. "Which reminds me, have they answered you yet?"

She shook her head. "But they would only have received the invitation today."

Aldona was dumbstruck. "But _why_?"

Eomer showed a grin. "Really, Aldona, after the week we've all had, you have to ask?"

"Because of Duncan's speech," Erella correctly concluded. "Because he killed your cousin's petition."

Elfhelm snickered. "I think murdered would be a better word."

"You both killed the petition," Sigrene said hotly. "You were _just_ as good as Hamelmark was."

"Oh, no," Erella scoffed, holding up a hand. "I was good, I know what I said helped, but that win was Duncan's through and through. What I said made people question Keveleok's argument. What he said demolished it from the ground up."

With a wrecking ball the size of a planet. "That's why we invited them," Eomer said, gesturing to his sister. "We like to reward people who do good things for us. A party invitation seemed like a good way to do it."

"When you put it like that, I can't argue," Aldona said. "The Earl certainly played an important role in the petition being rejected."

"That's putting it mildly," Tommen said. "Erella got some good punches in"—he dipped his head at the Countess—"but it was definitely Hamelmark who delivered the killing blow."

"Tommen, can I ask, have you spoken to Jothren?" asked Sigrene kindly.

Tommen sighed. "I have, yes. He's… he's not taking what happened well."

Cenefer snorted. "You mean he's having a meltdown and refusing to accept he did anything wrong."

Bema, but her bluntness was beginning to get a little bit tiring…

"I'm sure he'll have plenty of time over the summer to come to terms with what happened," said Eowyn; her turn to play peacemaker now.

"I can't imagine the Colafells are having a relaxing weekend, either," Calarion added.

Elfhelm added, "Or the Keveleoks."

"Or Lord Camelor," Eomer said without thinking. He looked up to see faces staring at him in shock. "What?" he said. "Did I say something wrong?"

Erling answered. "Your Majesty, are you implying Lord Camelor had something to do with the petition?"

Eomer looked at Eowyn, who gave a small 'what the hell' shrug. The petition was done. What harm could sharing the truth really do? "I'm not just implying. I'm outright stating. Camelor was behind the petition."

"As in, he's who Thenwis went to first?" Sigrene asked.

"Worse than that," Eowyn said. "He's the one who went to Thenwis."

Erella turned on him, eyes wide, jaw hanging in shock. "Are you telling me Rogen Camelor initiated the petition?"

Eomer nodded. "We have good reason to believe he talked Thenwis into it, then persuaded Leonilla and Jothren to present it in the Hall for her. He might even have written the actual text. I'm not sure on that."

"But why keep his involvement a secret?" Mordulf asked.

"Because he never likes to take public credit," Tommen explained. "He prefers to stay in the shadows, control everything from behind the scenes."

Eomer added, "Because if the shit hits the fan, like it did here, he doesn't get the blame."

"That snake," Erella hissed. Eyes blazing, she asked, "Do you have any evidence of this?"

"Would it matter, even if we did?" Eowyn said. "The petition is done. And Thenwis won't be able to raise it again."

"And I highly doubt anyone would consider his actions to be breaking the law," Brentan pointed out.

"It's a little unethical," Elfhelm said.

Cenefer shrugged. "But not illegal."

"No," said Erella, sighing.

"Dear Gods, is that what Lord Hamelmark's mistake was about?" said Sigrene. "When he apologized to Camelor for accidentally including him in the petition list? Was it actually not a mistake at all?"

"It wasn't, no," said Tommen. "Hamelmark knew Camelor was the real force behind the petition. And he was letting Camelor know that he knew."

Mordulf asked, "And how do you know this?"

Tommen raised a brow at Elfhelm, who sighed and said. "Lady Solwen told me."

"And how on earth did she know?" Eowyn demanded.

"She didn't say," Elfhelm said. "But I assume her father told her. She's apparently the one he's closest to, and the one he talks to the most about his work. Not so much to his oldest son."

No guesses on where that particular piece of 'intel' had come from.

"We should all be glad she's not the heir, then, shouldn't we?" Cenefer said. "Think of the trouble she would cause in the Hall."

"Yes, because you would be an absolute delight to deal with as well."

"Children," warned Tommen. "Manners, please."

"So, Rogen Camelor initiated the petition, and Duncan Hamelmark knew," Erella restated. She turned to Eomer. "And _you_ knew as well."

Eomer grinned. "I did."

"How?"

"Lady Darkfald, please. You know I can't tell you that. My security chief would never allow it."

"Oh, that little snippet did _not_ come from your security chief," Erella said, raising a finger. "I know Algrin. He would _never_ deal in information as dirty as that."

Thereby implying Eomer would. "Where do you think I got it from then, then?" he asked.

"Hmm, let me think." A gleam flashed in Erella's eyes. "From Lady Camelor, maybe?"

"Erella," Aldona exclaimed. "That's a little—"

Eomer held up a hand. "No, it's quite alright, I'm not offended. But I still won't comment on the matter. However I found out, that's between me and the person who told me."

"It would be implying that Lady Camelor is somehow spying on her ex-husband," said Mordulf.

Eomer sipped his tea. "Hmm, yes, it would now, wouldn't it?"

"Am I the only person in this whole country who doesn't spy on or gather gossip about other people?" Calarion said.

"That's because your good lady wife does enough spying for both of you," Elfhelm said, making Eowyn laugh.

"I don't spy," Erella huffed. "I _observe_."

"Right, sorry. Silly me. You _observe_ enough for both of you, then."

"And speaking of observing things," Mordulf started. "Is it just me, or does anyone else suspect the Earl of Roxbrunde's rebuke of Lady Keveleok was a deliberate trap?"

"He presented himself extremely well," Sigrene said.

Mordulf nodded. "He certainly did. But almost _too_ well, wouldn't you say? Almost as if he knew what was going to happen?"

"How on earth could he know what Keveleok was going to say?" Eowyn asked.

"Oh, I'm not saying he knew for sure. But if you knew beforehand what comment Lord Hamelmark was going to make, you could probably predict the three of four responses Lady Keveleok would make in return? And plan your next response from there?"

"Mordulf, are you saying Hamelmark and Roxbrunde conspired?" said Tommen.

"That's maybe too strong a word. But I think there was definitely some kind of arrangement."

"Those little shits," Erella said, eyes blazing again. "They absolutely conspired. The two of them arranged that little stunt together. That's why they were hanging out in the lobby after." She looked to Tommen. "And you remember, before the session started, when we were talking to Duncan out in the lobby, he broke off because he wanted to speak to Abelard?"

Tommen nodded. "I remember, yes. And they went out to talk on the terrace."

"So, that moment where Roxbrunde caught Keveleok out and told her off, that was a setup?" Elfhelm said.

"It looks that way, yes."

Elfhelm let out a whistle. "Now, that's impressive."

"It certainly is," said Erella. "To not only judge how Lady Keveleok would react, but to also have an attack response ready? And to have that response delivered by the Baby of the Hall? One of the few people in the whole room nobody would accuse of being underhand?" Sighing, she shook her head. "Duncan ran a circle around all of us there, I think. Not just the people behind the petition."

"He seems to be taking Abelard under his wing," said Tommen.

"Yes, well. Leave that with me. I'll nip it right in the bud," Erella warned. "Make sure Abelard understands how dangerous Duncan Hamelmark can be." Her eyes gleamed as she finished her sherry. "And if he won't listen to me, I'll talk to his mother instead. She'll sort him out."

"Oh, leave the poor lad alone," Eomer said, making Erella blink at him in surprise. "He's perfectly capable of deciding these things for himself. And it's not as if Lord Hamelmark's going to teach him how to murder people."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Sigrene muttered.

Erling filled his cup with coffee, either oblivious or impervious to the lateness of the hour. "It was certainly one of the most interesting debates I've seen in a long time." To Eomer, he said, "Did you watch the coverage, sir?"

Eomer nodded. "I certainly did." He smiled at Erella. "I wasn't able to see your speech live, I caught up with it later that night, but I tuned in just as Lord Hamelmark stood up."

"And what did you think?" Tommen asked, wary.

"Politics aside"—Eomer's code phrase to work around the Crown Neutrality Clause—"I thought he did an excellent job. And not just with his little tricks and traps. With his delivery, too. It takes real talent to speak that well."

"And plenty of practice as well, I'd imagine," Mordulf added.

Cenefer said, "I'm sure he wasn't that good when he first joined the Hall."

"Oh, no, he was," said Erella. "He's been that good as long as I've known him."

"But you've only know him ten years," Aldona pointed out.

"Actually, much longer than that." Erella grabbed a bottle to refill her sherry. "We were at university together. Not in the same course, or at the same time, I was in Law, he was in Finance, and two years ahead, but we were in the debating club together. And even back then, he was a star speaker. Everyone wanted him on their team. You could give him any subject, any position, barely ten minutes of prep, and he would still smear you into the ground." She swirled her glass, smiling fondly, caught up in memories of her youth. "Sometimes, when you gave him a point he couldn't immediately answer, he would do that thing he still does in the Hall, think while he paced back and forth, and you'd be absolutely sure you had him cornered. Then he'd come back with that annoying smile on his face, and you just knew, he was about to eviscerate you." She sighed. "Which was great when you were on his side, but slightly horrible when you weren't."

"Bloody good thing you were on his side on Thursday, then, wasn't it?" said Elfhelm.

But not so good for Keveleok and Romengar, who were probably spending the Solstice weekend licking their wounds in the privacy of their own homes…

"Didn't you _date_ Lord Hamelmark for a while?" Cenefer said to Erella.

"Cenefer, that's enough," Tommen said.

But Erella was made of sterner stuff than that. "No, it's fine," she said calmly. Her smile to Cenefer was cold, but polite. "You're right. I did."

"You dated _Duncan Hamelmark_?" said Eowyn, astonished.

Erella nodded. "Was a long time ago."

"At university?" Sigrene prompted.

Elfhelm snickered. "Did you give him some new debating positions to try?"

"Elfhelm," Aldona snapped. "Mind your tongue."

"Not at university, no. Quite a bit after that." Erella frowned, thinking. "Solwen was three-ish, I think, so it must have been the mid nineties? Maybe 1995?" She leaned out to grab a mint. "It wasn't anything serious, it didn't last long."

Eomer's brain threatened to break again. He wasn't sure what question he wanted to ask Erella first. But based on the table-full of astounded looks, neither was anyone else.

"Wasn't he married?" Mordulf said.

Erella shook her head. "Not at that point, no. It was after his second wife died, before he met his third one."

"Are you saying you knew Lady Solwen when she was a child?" said Elfhelm.

"I wouldn't say I knew her, but I met her a couple of times, when she wasn't staying with her grandparents. And Erland as well, but just once, he was mostly living with his mother then."

Against his better judgement, Eomer asked, "What was she like?"

"She was a lovely child. Very quiet, never gave anyone any trouble at all. One time, when we were watching a movie, Duncan sat her down on the rug with a bunch of those soft construction blocks and a plate of carrots and just left her to it. She just sat there and built stuff and ate her carrots. Never made so much as a sound."

Sigrene snorted. "I doubt she's that easy now."

Cenefer sneered. "Oh, I'm sure she's very—"

Everyone jumped as Tommen's fist thumped on the table. "Enough," he barked at his daughter. His smile to Brentan was strained. "Brentan, perhaps you and Cenefer could go to the terrace and check if the fireworks are ready?"

Which everyone knew was code for 'please remove my daughter before I thrash her within an inch of her life'.

Brentan—a nice, deferential young man—knew better than to argue with his illustrious father-in-law-to-be. He rose from his chair, turning to give Eowyn and Eomer each a quick bow. "Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness." He walked around to the other side of the room to pull out Cenefer's chair as she rose. She dropped her napkin on the table, gave the curtest of nods. "We'll see everyone outside."

The room stayed silent as they let themselves out.

Once they were gone and the doors were closed, Tommen sighed and said. "I apologize for Cenefer's behaviour tonight. She'd hoped to receive her advancement to Senior Barrister status this year, but was told this week she needs more experience first. She is… upset. And taking her frustrations out on other people."

And thus, the truth came out. "Understandable," Eomer said. "We all know how ambitious she is." And how she would fit those ambitions in with marriage and kids, he wasn't quite sure. But if anyone could do it, Cenefer could. She was focused and single-minded in a way that made Eowyn look laid-back.

"What makes it worse is that Brentan _was_ selected for advancement," Aldona quietly added. "So, there's tension between them as well. She's happy for him, but devastated for herself."

Eomer hoped that wasn't why they were prevaricating about the wedding…

"Did nobody think to tell me that?" Elfhelm said, looking from one parent to the other. "Or was I just supposed to figure it out for myself?"

"It's been a busy week," said Tommen. "And strangely, not everything in the world is about you. I'm quite sure she intended to tell you, when she was good and ready."

"Everyone and their bloody secrets," Elfhelm muttered. "We're all up to our bloody eyeballs in them."

Tommen's ears pricked up. "Really? And tell me, what secrets are you keeping these days?"

"Yeah, Elf," Eomer added, seeing another opportunity to prod at his friend. "What secrets _are_ you keeping these days?"

The look Elfhelm shot him could have frozen a balrog dead in his tracks.

Into his tea, Calarion murmured, "Maybe Elfhelm has a tattooed biker lover from a March clan as well."

Eowyn dissolved in giggles. "Is that it, Elf? Are you having a thing with a strapping young Darkwind man? Or a Stonehawk, maybe?" Her eyes lit up. "Ooh, it's not Vonnal, is it?" She leaned forward to whisper, "I wouldn't blame you if you were. He's rather easy on the eyes."

"Wynna, Vonnal's one of my personal guards," Eomer said. "That would be hitting just a little too close to home."

"No closer than your bike mechanic." Eowyn waved her sherry glass at him; he wondered how many measures she'd had. Either too many, or not enough. "You'll need to have a word with Brendal. Find out what on earth's going on there."

"Believe me when I say, a chat with Brendal is at the top of my to-do list for Monday." Just not the type of chat she imagined. Not so much 'tell me the gossip' as a 'what the fuck do you think you're doing'.

"You might want to reconsider taking him to the March with you," Eowyn added. "Unless you're willing to put up with him being a little distracted."

"I'm sorry," Tommen said, frowning, sitting up straight. "Who's going to the March?"

Bema, he'd forgotten he hadn't told anyone else about this. "I am," Eomer said. "For the Midsummer break. To Isendale."

Sigrene let out an astonished laugh. "Why on earth are you going there?" she asked, as if he'd declared he was spending the break on the slopes of Mount Doom.

"Would that be something to do with the election results, perhaps?" Calarion asked. "Is Harbrand sending you there to calm the natives?"

Eomer smiled. "Something like that, yes. I'm trying not to be overtly political about it, but it's as easy to go to Isendale as anywhere else, so I didn't see the harm." He snagged the last mint from the tray. "I'm actually looking forward to it. There's supposed to be some great riding roads in the region, I'm eager to try them out." He winked at Eowyn. "So, I'll definitely need to take Brendal with me. He'll know all the best places to go."

"Are you going to Isendale as well?" Tommen said to Eowyn.

Eowyn snorted. "I most certainly am not. His Majesty can play bachelor in the March for a month. I'll have a girls' trip to Aldburg instead. I'm going to take Colwenna and Seonell with me, as many of the female guards as I can. The boys can fish in the lake and cook their food over a fire out back for all I care. We'll have wine and chocolate and daily massages."

Aldona frowned. "I'm sorry, what boys?"

Eomer raised a brow at Elfhelm, who gave him a pained look back. Elfhelm sighed. "Yes, about that," he started.

"I was hoping to take Elf with me," Eomer said, figuring he should give his best friend some support. He turned to Sigrene Thelanor. "And if you don't mind, I thought I might borrow Mordulf for the month as well. Catch up with him, make a proper guy's holiday of it."

Cup at his mouth, Mordulf froze like a deer in the headlights. "I'm sorry?"

"Would you like to come to Isendale for the Midsummer break?" Eomer said. "I've rented a house, it's on a lake, very private, very pretty. Five bedrooms, so plenty of room for everyone." It would mean having to tell Mordulf about his relationship with Solwen, but he wanted to do that anyway, whether Mordulf came to the March or not. He needed someone else on his side—someone to double up with Elf to run interference for him.

"I'd be honoured." Mordulf looked to his parents. "Assuming you don't object?"

Sigrene heaved a put-upon sigh. "If you absolutely must. I mean, it's not as if I've seen you for more than two weeks a year for the last ten years."

"It's just a month, mother."

"As long as you start thinking about your responsibilities after."

And by responsibilities, she mostly meant settling down and finding a wife. The whole thing was never-ending…

"You have my word, when I come home, I'll give all of my responsibilities my full and absolute undivided attention," Mordulf said.

"Go to Isendale. Have fun." Sigrene raised a warning finger. "But no falling in love with some Marcher girl."

"Oh, for the love of Bema, it's not as if there's anything wrong with them," said Elfhelm. "You talk as if they're all an alien species."

"I sometimes think they are," said Erling. "Back when I worked at the Ministry of Defence, I had a few Marchers on my team, I swear, I had more in common with my Gondorian counterparts in Minas Tirith."

"That's hardly surprising," Eomer said. "You grew up in Near Anorien, it's entirely understandable you feel more connected to Gondor than to some other parts of Rohan. Same with people who grow up in The Wold"—he waved to Aldona—"where it's a strong Dalish influence instead." He shrugged. "The important thing is, we're all Rohanese underneath."

"You really believe that?" Sigrene said. "After how the election went? After the way the March voted?"

Eomer's nod was firm. "Absolutely, yes." He finished his port. "And to be quite honest, I think the government deserved how the election went. It's ignored the March for far too long. The election result was a region-wide protest. A wake-up call. A reminder to the government to get its shit together and start treating people fairly."

"I wasn't aware the March has been neglected," said Tommen, doubtful.

"It has," Eomer said, trying to remember what Solwen had told him at their first lunch. "It pays more in taxes than Eastfold does, gets less than half what Eastfold gets in return."

"Really?" said Erling.

Erella nodded as she sipped her port. "The distribution formula's all out of whack. Hasn't been reviewed in years. And the March has such a small population compared to other regions, it hasn't been able to bring the right influence to the table to get the problem fixed."

"I had no idea," said Aldona.

"So, I'm going to do what I can over Midsummer," Eomer said. "Which, admittedly, won't be a lot, but it's better than doing nothing at all."

"You'll probably see more of the Hamelmarks when you're there," said Erella. "They're not society players down here, but they are up in Isendale. Any fancy party you go to, they're sure to be in attendance as well." She smiled. "If you play nice, they might even invite you out to their house. It's beautiful. Lovely setting, overlooks a lake."

The same lake, as it happened. But nobody here needed to know that just yet.

A rap on the door, they slid apart just enough for Brentan to stick his head in. "The fireworks team says it's dark enough to start. They're ready when we are."

"Thank you, Brentan," said Tommen. "Tell them we'll be along shortly."

Eomer rose from his chair, prompting everyone else to finish up and rise as well. He waved to the door. "Shall we go see what the fireworks people have lined up for us?"

He was coming out of the bathroom when Elfhelm waylaid him, springing out of nowhere to grab him by the arms and manhandle him into the billiards room across the hall.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Elfhelm said.

Good question. But not precise enough. "Which particular thing are you talking about?" Eomer whispered. "Because there's at least six different things I can think of that make me ask that right now."

Elfhelm scrunched his nose. "The business with Brendal, of course. What the fuck is that about? How can anyone think he's dating you-know-who?"

He made Solwen sound like a super-villain. "I have a theory."

"Oh, do tell, please."

"Her father knows she's dating, but he doesn't know she's dating me."

"And?"

"And, I think she's using Brendal as her cover."

"You're shitting me."

"Not at all. I mean, when you think about it, it kind of makes sense. He's from the March, he likes bikes, and the family knows him, so her dad won't give her any hassle about it."

"Okay, but surely Brendal isn't playing along."

"He must be."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he's at their house for dinner tonight."

"Brendal is at the _Hamelmark's house_? Tonight? As in, right now?"

Eomer nodded. "And there's no way a fake relationship could survive a dinner with the Earl in one piece unless Brendal was in on the act."

"So, let me get this straight. You're dating a woman. You're keeping it a secret from your sister for now. Your girlfriend's keeping it a secret from everyone in her family except her older brother, pretending to be involved with another man. And that other man is your bike mechanic, who also knows his pretend girlfriend is who you're really dating. But your girlfriend and your bike mechanic are keeping their secret cover story a secret even from you."

Eomer thought it through; his brain started to hurt by the time he'd reached the second sentence. "That sounds about right, yes."

"Un-fucking-believable."

"Well, what the hell do you want me to do? I'm not ready to tell Eowyn yet. If she knows I've had three dates with an Earl's daughter, she'll start making guest lists and ordering flowers."

"Actually, I'm quite sure she already has your whole wedding planned. She's just waiting for you to fill in the name and the date at the top of the page."

Eomer didn't doubt it. "And Solwen doesn't want to tell her dad, for similar reasons." He poked his friend in the ribs. "And it's not as if you're any more honest."

"The fuck does that mean?"

"Have you told your parents about your new thing?"

"Of course I haven't. I couldn't just turn up for breakfast on Friday morning and say 'guess whose cock I sucked last night?'"

"You don't have to tell them about the cock-sucking." Sometimes, he couldn't believe the things that came out of his mouth. But not as interesting as what came out of Elfhelm's, apparently. "You could at least just tell them you and Erland met."

"I will, but not yet. My parents don't exactly approve of the Hamelmarks. I need time to break it to them."

"You should understand what I'm doing, then."

"I accept you need to keep you-know-who a secret for now. But you need to sort out this nonsense with Brendal," Elfhelm said sternly.

Eomer drew back, frowning. "Why? Are you offended?"

"Well, aren't you?"

"I was a little bit, at first, but now I just think it's hilarious. I'm already thinking about how I'm going to spring it on him. I think I'll call him up to my office, pretend to be all solemn and angry, tell him there's a really serious matter I need to discuss. See how much he shits himself before he breaks down in tears and confesses."

"You are an _absolutely_ terrible person. If I was him, and you did that to me, I would resign on the spot and sue you for constructive dismissal on the basis of mental abuse."

Eomer waved Elfhelm off. "Eh, he'll be fine. And I'll give him a raise."

"When are you going to talk to him?"

"Not sure. Monday if I can." He already had so much to do that day. "But soon, I promise."

"Good. Because you need to get that sorted out. It's fine if they want to go on using the cover story, but everybody involved needs to be on the same page, so nobody accidentally puts their foot in it. You, Solwen, Brendal, me, Erland, Colwenna, all of your guards."

"Why the fuck do I have to tell my guards?" Until they found the spy, he wasn't telling anyone a thing.

Elfhelm knocked on Eomer's head. "Hello, hello, going to the March, remember? There's almost certainly going to be at least one social occasion where you, Brendal and the Hamelmarks are all in the same room at the same time. What the fuck will your guards think, if Solwen has to pretend to be with Brendal while her father's around? How on earth will that look to them? They're going to think you're all having some kind of kinky three-way, or that you like to watch while your girlfriend fucks other guys."

Bema, he hadn't thought of that. "Good point, thank you."

"Not just a pretty face, you know."

They broke off as footsteps approached. A rap on the door, Mordulf stuck his head in. "Apologies if I'm interrupting, everyone's ready, they sent me to find you."

"It's fine. We'll be right there."

"Are we conspiring?" Mordulf whispered, eager-eyed.

Grinning, Elfhelm whispered back, "A little bit, yes."

"Why the fuck are we all whispering?" Eomer whispered. "Everyone else is outside."

"Fastmer is in the hall, and he has really good hearing," Elfhelm whispered.

"Yes, but he works for me, and he signed a non-disclosure agreement." Plus, he wouldn't talk even if he hadn't.

"Am I allowed to ask what we're conspiring about?" Mordulf whispered.

"You should tell him," Elfhelm said. "He deserves to know what's going on."

"What's going on?" said Mordulf, louder now, alarmed. "Is there a problem?"

"It's a long story," Eomer said. "And I don't have time to explain it tonight." He looked to Elfhelm. "Can we invite him to our brunch tomorrow?"

"Of course. But it was supposed to be brunch after a racquetball game. And it's hard to play racquetball with three people."

"I could sit that out," Mordulf offered. "Meet you after."

"Or, we just rotate in and out, play for funsies instead of points." Eomer nodded. "Let's do that."

"But I like playing for points," Elfhelm complained.

"Can you meet us at the Rohan Club at nine-thirty?" Eomer said.

Mordulf nodded. "Of course."

"Great. Keep your questions until tomorrow. I'll explain everything to you then. And we'll talk more about what's happening over Midsummer." He checked his watch. "Let's go see these fireworks before Tommen sends out another search party."

He needed some air.

Between the heat in the house, the music, the twins' constant bickering, the noise of the video game and all the food and booze he'd consumed, he was starting to feel a little bit drained. Ten minutes outside should fix that nicely.

He slid the door open, let himself out, quietly pulled it shut behind him.

The terrace was silent and blissfully cool. He went to the balustrade, scanning the empty garden beyond, breathing in the fresh evening air. The sun had gone down, but the sunset lingered, scattering a fading wave of pinks and purples across the night sky.

It was beautiful, and peaceful, and just what his battered nerves needed. Bema. What a fucking night. A great night, full of good company, good food and good wine, but he would give up next year's salary to never have to do it again.

He turned as the door opened behind him. To his relief, it wasn't Haradoc or the Earl, come to have another wee 'chat'.

Erland smiled as he approached. "Taking a break?"

Brendal nodded. "Your family is really nice, and I've had a great time tonight, it's just—" he broke off, sighing.

"They're a little bit much," Erland finished.

"A little bit, yes." Brendal watched in amusement as Erland brought out a hand-rolled joint. He looked to the house, but nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention.

Erland grinned. "Don't worry. None of them care." He frowned. "Does it bother you? Sorry, I should have asked."

"Not at all, no. But, you do realize, it's illegal down here? Even just to possess it?" He waved at the joint. "You'd get a pretty serious fine for that."

"It's only illegal if you get caught."

The age-old Marcher defense…

"You did really well tonight," Erland said, lighting his joint to take a quick puff. He offered it up, Brendal raised a hand to refuse. Under other circumstances, he would happily share, but it didn't seem right tonight. "Even if you'd just come to dinner as Solly's friend, it would have been a lot to take in. But to come as her boyfriend as well? That's a whole extra level of bullshit right there. You're a good person. Thank you for being so willing to help."

"That part actually hasn't been anywhere near as bad as I expected. Except for that moment when Haradoc asked if I'd heard about your dad's speech. I just about died of panic inside."

"Would never have known it from how you answered. You handled it like an absolute pro."

"All your sister's work. I wouldn't have had a clue what to do without the wee training session she gave me."

"She walked you through the 101 of lying, then?"

Brendal nodded. "On the way in from the bus. Just some basic stuff. Nothing too complicated."

"Let me guess. Stay close to the truth, don't over-explain, if in doubt, say you don't know or don't remember."

"Aye, that was it."

Erland took another puff of his joint. "Basic, but useful."

It certainly would be, the next time he had to weasel out of going home to Isendale for a family dinner. "Can I ask a personal question?" Brendal said. "About your family, I mean?"

"Of course."

"Did your grandmother _really_ teach you all how to lie?"

"She did, yes. She thought since we would almost certainly have to do a fair bit of it, we should know how to do it well."

"I hope you don't mind me saying this, but that attitude, well, no offense, it's kind of fucked up."

Erland snorted. "It's completely fucked up. Quick and easy way to turn your kids into sociopaths with no concept of right or wrong."

"Why the hell did she teach you, then?"

"Good question. I honestly have no idea. My best guess is, she wanted us to be ready for what she knew we would have to deal with. We're a political family at heart, and expecting politicians to be honest is like expecting prostitutes to be virgins."

"Solwen seems to be quite good at it."

"She is. Much better at it than me." In a quiet voice, Erland added, "Too good sometimes, I think."

"That bother you?"

"Course it does. She's a good person underneath, kind and decent, and I know she only does it with the best of intentions. I mean, this whole cover story with you, that's only because our dad wouldn't mind his own business." He turned to lean against the balustrade, looking into the house. "But whatever her intentions are, at the end of the day, she's still deceiving people. I just worry someone's going to get hurt."

"It's just a wee white lie," Brendal said. "I can't see how that would ever happen."

"You'd be surprised."

"Do you think she shouldn't lie, then? That she should just come clean to everyone and 'fess up?"

"Fuck, no," Erland uttered. "There's no way she can tell my dad who she's really dating. He'll turn it into a fucking circus. And grandpa, Bema. He'll have an absolute fit. I mean, you've heard how much he mocks people from Edoras, and you don't get more Edoran than the King." He took another drag. "And there's no point in telling anyone until they know it's going somewhere. For all we know, they could break up next week."

"True." But in Brendal's opinion, that seemed highly unlikely. "Your dad's going to get quite a shock when it all comes out."

"He is. But it'll be all his own bloody fault. None of this would be necessary if he would just mind his own business."

Brendal hesitated, then said, "Solwen says it's because of what happened with her mother."

"It is. But that's still no excuse. It's been twenty-six years. I won't say dad needs to get over it, Bema knows you never really get over something like that, but he needs to find a better way to deal with it. Before he does something stupid that drives Solly away."

"I know it's really none of my business, but maybe he should speak to someone. A counsellor, or a therapist."

"He should. And I've told him that. Several times."

"No deal?"

Erland shook his head. "He won't talk to anyone about it. Except his own dad. But grandpa's idea of therapy is to make you a cup of tea and tell you to walk it off."

"My dad's like that as well. Thinks a cup of tea and a good nap is the cure for all the world's troubles."

"Just a generational thing, I guess."

Inside the house, movement drew Brendal's eye. The video game had been abandoned, the twins were now unclipping what looked like two instrument cases. He nudged Erland, pointed inside. "Is this something we should be worried about?" he asked.

Erland let out a sigh. "Absolutely. That means we've reached the live music stage of the night."

"Sorry?"

"The twins are musicians in their spare time. They're doing a gig downtown tomorrow, so they brought their instruments with them."

"They mentioned that, aye." As Brendal watched, a fiddle and an acoustic guitar came out. "They're not about to start playing, are they?" He checked his watch; just after ten-thirty. "Shouldn't we be wrapping this up?"

"Wrapping up?" Erland repeated. "You're kidding me, right?"

Brendal groaned. "This is going to be an all-night party, isn't it? I'm going to be rolling home at dawn."

"Not all-night, no. But it'll go until midnight at least. Longer if everyone's in the mood." Erland patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. If you fall asleep or pass out, we'll roll you onto something soft, stick a pillow under your head, throw a blanket over you."

"I would say you're very kind, but I'm not entirely sure that's the right word to use."

Inside, the music started up. Just tuning and warming up at first, but it quickly settled into a disturbingly familiar song.

"Is that what I think it is?" Brendal said.

"Why?" Erland said, a grin pulling at his lips. "What do you think it is?"

Brendal froze, cocking an ear, nodding as the song hit the familiar notes of the chorus. "Isn't that 'Rise Up You Sons of Green and Gold?'"

"Correct."

"But that's a _rebel_ song," Brendal protested. "It's about overthrowing the establishment, for Bema's sake."

"Also correct."

Which didn't make a damn bit of sense. "But your dad's an earl. He sits in the Hall of Lords. He's part of the establishment. As far from being a rebel as you can get. He's one of the people the guys who wrote the song want to overthrow."

Erland sighed. "Yup."

A thumping sound now—Haradoc stamping his foot and clapping along.

"Oh, Gods, they're not going to start singing, are they?" Brendal asked, horrified at the mere thought. This was too much, even for him.

"Probably not," said Erland. "But never say never. It depends how drunk everyone gets. If the vintage mead comes out, you should get your earplugs ready."

It was absolutely absurd. He was standing on the terrace of a multi-million pound mansion on the north side of the most exclusive suburb in the whole kingdom, a mansion that was also the second home of a famous and distinguished earl, watching a future earl slowly puffing his way through a joint, while his Marcher half-brothers and his clan grandfather played and clapped along to a song about rising up against elitist oppressors.

There was absolutely no fucking _way_ he was sharing this part with Colwenna…

"Just be glad they're playing it inside tonight," Erland said. "Last time, they played it out here instead."

"And?"

Erland pointed to the house next door—the home of the curtain twitcher. "Lady Darrock called the cops on us. When they turned up, she came over to complain all over again. Dad told her to fuck off and mind her own business. It kind of went downhill from there."

Brendal had no words left. His ability to describe these people was _done_. He nudged Erland. "Any chance I can have a hit of that smoke?"


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colwenna warns Eowyn that Eomer is on the hunt for the guest list, Eomer has brunch with Elfhelm and Mordulf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voda is Vodka in LOTR AU world, not water :)

**Sunday June 21, 2020**

She was never, _ever_ drinking that much voda again.

It was all Mordulf Thelanor's fault; he was the one who'd started the game. Although, to be fair, it wasn't as if Fastmer had held a gun to her head and forced her to finish so many shots.

Groaning, she perched her elbows on the table and pressed her fingers to her eyes. Someone was still using the back of her head as a drum, but the world wasn't spinning now, which made a nice change. Thank Bema she didn't have any engagements this morning—a rare moment of prescience on her part. She had something at two, but two o'clock was five hours away; she should be up and ready by then. Or what could pass for ready, at least.

She was contemplating going back to bed when someone knocked on her morning room door. This better be something trivial; she couldn't deal with a major crisis right now. "Come in," she called out.

To her relief, the head that appeared was only Colwenna's. "Sorry to intrude," Colwenna said with a sympathetic smile. "I know you came in late last night, I was wondering if you had a few minutes?"

Eowyn waved her in. "Of course, come in." She nibbled a wedge of toast, washed it down with some freshly-squeezed juice. "What's up?" she said.

Colwenna closed the door behind her. "There's a bit of a problem with your brother."

Oh, but of _course_ there was. When did Colwenna ever bring her a problem that _wasn't_ about her brother? "Go on, then. What's the brainless halfwit done today?" she said.

"He's gotten it into his head that he needs to see the banquet guest list."

What banquet? That didn't make sense. "I'm sorry?"

Sighing, Colwenna moved closer. "He's trying to find the guest list for the oath anniversary banquet."

Finally, the words sank in. A cold ball of dread formed in Eowyn's stomach, and this time, not because of how much she'd had to drink. "Oh, Gods," she said. "That's…" she broke off, massaging the sides of her head. She couldn't deal with this right now. She couldn't deal with _anything_ right now. Why did this have to come up today, of all days? Why not tomorrow instead?

"He apparently went looking for it late on Friday," Colwenna explained. "The only reason he didn't find it is that Fenbrand had already gone home, and Connet didn't have the keys for the filing cabinet."

"Okay, but why is he even asking for it?" Eowyn asked. "He _never_ gets involved in these things." And of all the moments to get involved. His Majesty honestly had the worst bloody timing…

"I don't know. But something or someone has put a bee in his bonnet about it."

And Eowyn knew better than to believe that bee would vanish overnight. Eomer wasn't quite as focused as she was, but he could still be pretty determined when he put his mind to it. "Which means we need to tell him Lothiriel's coming," she said.

Colwenna nodded. "And the sooner the better, I think."

Two days. That was how long they'd had between one crisis ending and the next one starting. Was it too much to ask for at least a week between crises instead? "We could tell him tonight, once we're all home."

"I thought about that, but I'd quite like Fenbrand to be there as well."

"Colwenna," Eowyn said in a teasing tone. "Are you trying to make Fenbrand carry the blame?"

"Not at all, no," Colwenna said. "But I'm not going to let him off either. The three of us made the decision to hold off telling the King together. We should explain the issue to him together as well."

"Safety in numbers, right?"

"The way His Majesty's going to react, I'm not sure three of us will be safe enough."

Yes, there was that tiny problem. Eomer was usually as easy-going as any person could be, but when he lost his temper, he tended to do so in a rather _volcanic_ way. "If you'd like, I could ask one of the guards to be in the room with us," she offered.

"It's not us I'm worried about. But when we tell him, let's do it in a room with no breakable or valuable objects."

Eowyn snorted, wincing as the movement sent a stabbing pain through the back of her head. "Yes, that's definitely a good idea." She sipped her juice, wondering if she should add some voda to it. Alcohol probably wouldn't help, but it couldn't possibly make her feel any worse. "Some time tomorrow, then?"

Colwenna nodded. "I'll speak to Fenbrand when he comes in, make him aware of the issue."

"What does Eomer have tomorrow? Any idea?"

"His morning isn't too bad. He's busy from twelve until seven."

"Tomorrow morning, then."

"Early, so he has time to get over the shock."

Eowyn nodded, winced again, rubbed the sides of her head. "After breakfast."

Lips quirking, Colwenna stepped forward, peering at her. "Why do I think someone had slightly too much fun at the Elgolls last night?"

Eowyn groaned. "I had slightly too much of something last night, but I'm not sure it was fun. Remind me to never, _ever_ get into a drinking game with Mordulf Thelanor ever again."

"Oh, child. You never get into a drinking game with an ex-Army man. That's a fast way to liver failure."

She wondered what Colwenna had done to learn that lesson herself. A shots race with Fastmer, maybe? "Apparently, yes."

Colwenna disappeared into her kitchenette, rummaged until she found some painkillers, cracked out two of two different types and brought them to her. "Here. Take all those. And drink all that juice. Dehydration's your biggest problem right now."

Eowyn swallowed the pills, drank as much juice as her poor, abused stomach could manage. "Was actually thinking I might go back to bed. I don't have anything until this afternoon."

"Nothing cures a hangover quite as well as sleep and time."

Or a bullet to the back of the head. "Was Eomer hungover this morning?"

Colwenna shook her head. "Just a little bit tired, I think." She smiled. "But he said he didn't drink anything after dinner because he knew he had to be up early this morning."

"For once, I'm insanely jealous of my brother's life choices."

"I'm sure he'll be back to disappointing you by this afternoon."

By midday, more likely. "Where's he gone to this morning anyway? An official thing?"

Colwenna shook her head. "One of his Sunday mornings with Elfhelm."

A bike ride, maybe, assuming Eomer's shoulder was ready for it…

Bike ride.

She snapped bolt upright, remembering the _scandalous_ gossip she wanted to share. Pain suddenly fading, she said, "Colwenna, Bema, that reminds me. Would you like to know what delicious rumour I heard at our dinner last night?"

Colwenna let out a tolerant sigh. "I assume not something about your brother for once, since he was at the dinner as well."

Grinning, Eowyn shook her head. "About _Brendal,_ of all people."

" _Our_ Brendal?"

"Eomer's bike mechanic, yes." She couldn't remember his second name; she'd only spoken to him a handful of times. "And you won't _believe_ what he's done."

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"He's got himself a girlfriend. And a rather interesting one, at that."

"A _girlfriend_?" Colwenna repeated, as if 'girlfriend' meant 'expensive mistress'. Although, given who the girlfriend was, it was entirely possible it did.

"A girlfriend, yes."

"And this is _our_ Brendal? In the garage? The man who's almost as married to his work as Fastmer is?"

"Not as much as we all thought." Eowyn took some more juice. "And would you like to know who the girlfriend is?"

"Is 'no' an acceptable answer?"

It certainly wasn't; she was sharing this gossip whether Colwenna liked it or not. "Solwen Hamelmark."

Colwenna blinked like a lizard.

Eowyn giggled. "Yes, that's pretty much how I reacted as well." With some coughed-up tea on top.

"Sorry, can you say that again?" Colwenna said curtly. "I'm not sure I heard you right."

"Brendal is dating Solwen Hamelmark," Eowyn repeated. "As in, the Earl of Hamelmark's daughter? The one who punched Lord Camelor's brother?"

"Yes, I know who she is," Colwenna said. "But it doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, why's that?"

"Well… it's just…"

"Just what?"

"Who even told you they were dating?" Colwenna demanded.

"The Countess of Darkfald did. And she apparently heard it from the Earl of Hamelmark himself."

"The Earl of Hamelmark told the Countess of Darkfald that _Brendal Jordelane_ is dating his daughter?"

"Apparently, yes."

Colwenna rubbed her face. "And this came out at dinner last night?"

"Yes." Eowyn leaned forward to whisper, "Plus a few other interesting things as well."

But instead of asking about the other things, Colwenna said, "And your brother was there when it came out? _And_ Lord Elfhelm?"

Why on earth did that matter? "Both of them, yes."

"Did they seem surprised?"

"Not that I remember, no." Which wasn't saying much—most of the evening was now an alcohol-soaked blur. "Why do you ask?"

Colwenna sighed, hesitated. "No particular reason," she said. "I'm just… I'm a little shocked, that's all."

"You're not the only one. The Countess of Thelanor was positively appalled." Eowyn emptied her glass. "She told me later on that if Lady Solwen was her daughter, she would threaten to disinherit her unless she gave the whole thing up."

"The Countess of Thelanor needs to shut her fat mouth." Colwenna grimaced, held up a hand. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That was extremely inappropriate of me."

But not entirely incorrect. "Colwenna, is something wrong?" Eowyn said.

Colwenna forced a smile. "Nothing's wrong. Don't mind me, I'm just… I'm over-thinking." She nodded at Eowyn's bedroom door. "Why don't you go back to bed, get some more sleep? You look like you could use it."

She certainly could. Eowyn pushed up from her chair, groaning as the sudden movement made her head pound. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, then?"

Colwenna nodded. "I'm off for the rest of today, I only came in to speak to you about this, but I'll be in first thing tomorrow. I'll round up Fenbrand, come find you, the three of us will go see the King together."

That sounded like an entirely reasonable plan…

Mind racing, Colwenna pulled the door over.

What the bloody _hell_ was going on now? What kind of ridiculous game was Brendal Jordelane playing? Actually, no, never mind that—what kind of ridiculous game was _Solwen Hamelmark_ playing? Was the Countess of Darkfald's rumour right? Was Lady Solwen dating the King, and somehow, secretly dating Brendal as well? Surely not. Surely she wouldn't be so cruel.

Except, the Earl of Hamelmark had been the source of the Countess's news. Would he really misunderstand something as important as who his daughter was dating? And Bema, was this why the Earl had invited Brendal to dinner?

And never mind the Earl—what did Eomer know about the situation or not? He'd heard the Countess's news as well, had apparently taken it all in his stride, expressed not even a moment of shock. What on _earth_ was all that about? Had he simply not believed the rumour was true, but hadn't wanted to comment on it? That seemed the most sensible explanation.

But what if there was more to it than that? Something His Majesty knew about? Something private and _improper_?

It was too much, even for her. She didn't want to think about it right now; today was supposed to be her day off. But tomorrow morning, after they'd had their chat with the King, she was going to have a quiet chat with Brendal as well.

Find out what the bloody _hell_ all these idiot people were doing…

Groaning, Eomer sank onto the bench.

Fastmer turned to shoot him a frown. "Everything alright, sir?"

Eomer nodded, needing a moment to catch his breath. "Everything's fine. Just surprised by how much it hurts."

"Your shoulder?"

"Everything," Eomer said, waving down at his body. "Two weeks of not having my morning swim, I'm so out of condition, Mordulf's running circles around me."

Fastmer let out a snort. "All due respect, sir, Lord Mordulf runs circles around you even when you're _in_ condition."

How Eomer treasured these tender moments. "Thank you, Fastmer. You always know _exactly_ what to say to make me feel better."

"You're very welcome, sir." Fastmer gestured into the court, where Mordulf was kicking Elfhelm's ass now. "If it's any consolation, Lord Mordulf seems to be running circles around Lord Elfhelm as well."

As they watched, the ball bounced towards Elfhelm; Mordulf grabbed Elfhelm by the scruff of his shirt to violently swing him into the wall.

Eomer winced. "I think Elfhelm's probably wishing he'd just stayed in bed."

"And maybe that he'd stopped drinking after dinner last night," Fastmer added.

Yes, now Fastmer mentioned it, Elfhelm did look a bit green around the gills. He wondered how Eowyn was faring this morning. "I'm quite sure Her Royal Highness is thinking the same thing."

"She did consume rather a lot of alcohol, sir."

Eomer grinned. "You disapprove of people drinking, Fastmer?"

"Not at all," Fastmer replied. "If you're a legal adult, you're welcome to drink as much as you want." His smile was unforgiving. "As long as you accept the consequences of your actions, of course."

You could take the man out of the Army, but you couldn't take the Army out of the man. "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, is that it?"

"Absolutely, sir."

On the bench beside him, Eomer's phone let out a short buzz. He grabbed it to swipe it open, a warm feeling spreading through him as he saw who the message was from. He'd texted Solwen on the way home last night, but he'd never received a response, presumably because of the lateness of the hour. But if she was only catching up with him now, at ten o'clock the following morning, maybe because she'd had an even later night herself.

 _My Solstice dinner was good_ , she said, answering the question he'd asked. _How was yours?_

 _Was great_ , he texted back. _Managed not to drink too much._

_That makes one of us._

He grinned to himself. She was having the same kind of morning as Elfhelm and Eowyn, then. _Feeling a little bit fragile today?_

 _Yes_ , was all she said.

 _I won't keep you_. Mostly because he didn't have time to stay and text—Elfhelm and Mordulf were a minute away from finishing up. _Just wanted to see how you were._

 _I'll live_ , she replied. _We still good for tomorrow night?_

 _Absolutely. Can't wait._ Which had always been true, but now was true for one reason more. When he'd texted her last night, he'd considered poking her about the Brendal thing then. But he'd since decided to keep it until he could ask her about it in person instead. And Brendal as well, but separately. He wanted to see the looks in their eyes when he confronted them with his 'news'. Although, with Solwen, he would probably just see irritation instead.

 _Same here_ , she sent. A few seconds, then, _I have some special plans for you_.

_Does it involve a desk?_

_No. But you'll like it, I promise._

He was quite sure he would…

Movement from the court drew his attention again—Elfhelm grabbing Mordulf's racquet, trying to pull Mordulf away from a shot—one of Elfhelm's favourite tactics, and one that _usually_ worked. A blur of motion, Mordulf's left hand and right foot did something Eomer's eye couldn't quite follow, then somehow, Elfhelm was lying face down in a pile on the floor. Mordulf's victory didn't end there. He walked over Elfhelm, planting a foot firmly in the middle of Elfhelm's back. Eomer was sure he heard a soft 'oofing' sound.

 _I have to go_ , he sent. _I think Elfhelm's about to be murdered._

_Sounds fun. Go save him. TTYL._

_See you tomorrow_ , he sent, then closed the phone and set it aside.

"Which unit did you say Lord Mordulf served in again, sir?" Fastmer asked.

"The King's Own," Eomer said. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Not at all, sir, no. They must have updated their standard hand-to-hand tactics, that's all," Fastmer said, as if he'd just watched a science experiment with a slightly unusual result, instead of someone squashing a grown man into the ground.

Elfhelm rolled onto his back, lay there panting for a few minutes, maybe trying to figure out how the _hell_ he'd ended up on the floor. Mordulf came to hold out a hand, which Elfhelm used to pull himself up, first to kneeling, then to a more or less standing position. Side by side, the two men strode to the door. Or, rather Mordulf strode, Elfhelm just limped.

Breathing heavily, Eomer's friends collapsed to either side of him on the bench.

"I think it's sprained," Elfhelm declared in a pathetic tone.

"What is?" asked Mordulf.

"Everything. My whole body."

Mordulf grinned. "It does have that effect, yes."

"What the _fuck_ did you just do to me?" Elfhelm demanded.

Eomer answered. "I think it was called the 'handing you your arse on a plate' manoeuvre." He might need to learn it himself. Maybe Fastmer could teach it to him.

Sweating, groaning, Elfhelm leaned forward, dropping his head between his knees. "Remind me never to meet anyone for racquetball the morning after a dinner party ever again."

"Was your idea," Eomer pointed out. "We could have gone for a nice, relaxing run instead."

"As if running would have been any better." Face crinkling in disgust, Elfhelm turned to Mordulf. "And why the hell aren't you hurting? You drank everyone under the table last night. Why do you look so bloody chipper today?"

"Years of training," Mordulf said, standing to stretch his lateral muscles. "When you have to be on duty at seven, but you were in the Officer's Mess until midnight, you get to be pretty good at recovering from drinking sessions." He slapped Fastmer on the arm. "Isn't that right, Fastmer?"

"I wouldn't know, My Lord," Fastmer calmly said, looking at his arm the way a fussy cat looked at a spot of fur that had just been stroked. "I was never an officer."

Welp. That was Mordulf told…

Eomer pushed up from the bench. "Enough chatter. Let's go wash up and eat."

Thirty minutes later, they were washed, dressed and sipping their drinks in the same private dining room as before.

The drinks were only tea, coffee and water today. It was just a little too early for booze, and they'd all had plenty of it the previous night. Especially Elfhelm. Even after ten solid minutes in a cold shower, he still looked like death warmed up and boiled over with a dying flower added on top. It was a wonder he'd managed to play at all. If you could call what he did 'playing'.

"I assume everyone got home safely last night?" Elfhelm asked.

"No problems for us," Eomer said. "It took a while to get Eowyn up to her room, but nothing Elfwina and I couldn't manage between us."

Mordulf grinned into his tea. "She _did_ have rather a lot to drink."

"Yes, and I wonder why?" said Elfhelm tartly.

"I never pressured anyone," Mordulf said, holding up a disclaiming hand. "Whatever Her Royal Highness did, it was all her own choice."

A choice she probably wouldn't be making again in a hurry. "Was a good night," Eomer said. "Great food. Great wine. Great company."

"Great gossip," Elfhelm added.

The gossip, yes. The main reason Eomer had asked Mordulf to join them today. But he wasn't ready to spill the beans yet. He wanted to test the waters first.

To Mordulf, Eomer said, "Speaking of gossip, what did you think about what the Countess of Darkfald told us?"

"You'll need to narrow it down," Mordulf replied. "Because she told us rather a lot."

"About the Hamelmarks."

Mordulf shook his head. "Sorry. Still not narrow enough."

Elfhelm huffed. "Stop being so bloody mysterious and just tell him, for Bema's sake."

"What do you _personally_ think of the Hamelmarks, is what I'm asking," Eomer said, shooting Elfhelm the mildest of 'shut up' glares.

Mordulf leaned back in his seat. "I don't know any of them well enough to really have an opinion of them." He smirked as he sipped his tea. "But after what I heard on the way home in the car last night, I certainly know what my mother thinks of them."

"She doesn't like them," Eomer guessed. Not much of a guess—Sigrene had made her feelings about the Hamelmarks _abundantly_ clear.

"It's not quite as strong as that. She saves her full-on dislike for people who really deserve it. The Earl of Camelor, for instance. With the Hamelmarks, I think it's more that she disapproves of them, but in a _reassuring_ way, I think would be the best way to put it? She looks down on them, and that makes her feel better about herself."

Elfhelm wagged his spoon. "I think that's called being a crushing snob."

"I don't doubt it," Mordulf said.

Eomer grabbed a half cube of sugar, slowly stirred it into his tea, taking a mental breath for courage. "So, if I told you I was… _involved_ with Solwen Hamelmark, what would you think?"

"And by involved, you mean…?"

"Seeing her," Eomer explained.

"Having sex with her," Elfhelm added. "Lots of sex. In rather unusual places."

Mordulf blinked in surprise. "Your Majesty, are you trying to tell me Solwen Hamelmark is your _girlfriend_?"

Girlfriend, yes, that was probably the best word to use. Eomer nodded. "I am, yes."

Face impassive, showing neither approval nor disapproval, Mordulf sipped his tea. "And how long has this been going on?"

"Not very long. Just a couple of weeks." Barely that, now he thought about it. It felt like longer, which was maybe a comment on how busy those two weeks had been. Although, in some ways, his thing with Solwen had really started at that first lunch, and that had been almost a month ago now. "Tomorrow night will be our fourth date."

A grin spread on Mordulf's face. "A _fourth_ date? For you, that's almost as good as being engaged."

"Okay, but do you think I'm doing something stupid?" Eomer said, ignoring the (perfectly valid) dig.

"Why on earth would I ever think that?"

"Because of who she is," Eomer explained. "Or who her family is, rather."

"I don't see what that has to do with it. You're dating her. Not her family."

"You don't think I _shouldn't_ date her, then?"

"Is there any obvious reason you shouldn't date her?" Mordulf asked.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, all the usual stuff you have to consider because you're the King. Has she been convicted of a serious crime? Does she have a drug problem? Is she divorced? Does she have an illegitimate child? Did she spend a year working in the adult entertainment business? Was she previously involved with the son of an organized crime leader? In other words, has she done something the Crown couldn't afford to be associated with because of the scandal it would cause?"

"Not that I'm aware of, no." There was the whole 'punching Thelden Camelor' thing, but his uncle had kept that as a private matter, so no charges had ever been laid. "I might have to check the organized crime thing, but I'm sure I know what the answer will be."

Mordulf shrugged. "Then, there's no reason at all you shouldn't date her."

"You don't disapprove, then?"

"Course I bloody don't," Mordulf said. "If you like her, and she likes you, and you enjoy being with her, that's good enough for me."

Instantly, the tension in Eomer's shoulders faded away. "Thank you. It's honestly a huge relief to hear you say that."

"I'm just relieved it isn't a married woman this time," Mordulf added, smiling to take the sting out of his words. "Because that was _definitely_ a non-starter. Even if she's getting divorced."

Eomer felt his cheeks redden. "There was never anything serious to it. It was always just a harmless fling."

"I'm not entirely sure Lord Camelor would feel the same way," Elfhelm said.

Elfhelm was being so _very_ helpful today; he must have been taking lessons from Colwenna…

"Oh, and speaking of Lord Camelor, isn't Solwen Hamelmark the one who did the punching thing?" Mordulf asked.

It really was going to be a badge she wore for the rest of her life. "That was her, yes."

"And wasn't she Banned?"

"She was. But I lifted the Ban at the end of April. It's all over now."

"Oh, so is that how the two of you met?"

"Not then, no. I lifted the Ban by letter. We met a few weeks after that. When she brought her bike to the Palace." Mordulf frowned and started to speak; Eomer waved him away. "Don't ask, long story." With more moving parts to it than he could now remember.

"She likes motorbikes, then?" Mordulf asked instead.

Eomer nodded. "I was going to say she's an even better rider than Elf, but that's not exactly a medal-worthy accomplishment."

"Oh, ha fucking ha," Elfhelm muttered.

"I can't think when you've ever dated a biker before," Mordulf mused. "What does she ride?"

Elfhelm huffed. "His Majesty, mostly."

"A ninety-four Shadowfax 500," Eomer said, shooting his friend another glare.

Mordulf let out an admiring whistle. "That's a lovely piece of equipment. A real classic. And it's still running?"

Eomer nodded.

"Have you ridden it?"

"He certainly has." Elfhelm said. " _And_ the Shadowfax as well."

Eomer's patience ran dry. "For fuck's sake, Elf, can we please get through a single snippet of conversation without a smutty comment, please?"

"But smutty comments are what I do best."

Erland Hamelmark probably wouldn't agree; he would have another answer…

"So, who else knows?" Mordulf asked, smiling at the tetchy exchange. "About your thing with Lady Solwen, I mean?"

"Hardly anyone. You two, obviously." Eomer thought through the list in his head. "Colwenna, Fastmer, Vonnal, they're two of my guards, Algrin, my security chief." Was that it? No, one other name. "And Yelisan. She's the driver who bring Solwen to the Palace. Oh, and Brendal. My bike mechanic. He's the one who introduced us."

Frowning, Mordulf raised a finger. "Okay, hang on a minute, I remember that name, it came up at one point last night."

Dammit. Eomer had had been hoping Mordulf would forget that part—him and his 'attention to detail' brain. "It did." He could have some fun at Mordulf's expense. "Brendal is Solwen's boyfriend."

"Sorry, but I thought you were her boyfriend."

"I am."

Mordulf's face settled into the most fabulously neutral expression Eomer had ever seen. "Okay, if there's some… arrangement going on here, I'll say now, you're all consenting adults, I'm absolutely not going to judge, but—"

"See?" a grinning Elfhelm crowed. "It's like I said. A kinky three-way is what people will instantly think."

"Mordulf, I'm not having three way sex with the Earl of Hamelmark's daughter and my bike mechanic." He didn't object to the thought of a threesome in theory, but he wasn't sure he wanted the third person to be a man…

"Then what the _hell_ is going on?"

Good question. "Remember last night, Erella mentioned how nosy the Earl of Hamelmark is? How much he likes to know what's going on his children's lives?"

"Yes?"

"Apparently, he's also extremely good at taking small pieces of data and putting them together to figure things out. And he was getting too close to the truth for Solwen's comfort."

"You mean, about the fact she's dating you," Mordulf said.

"Precisely." Eomer topped up his tea. "He knew she was dating someone, so she misdirected, convinced him she was dating someone other than me."

Mordulf nodded, understanding. "And that someone was Brendal."

"I think so, yes. He's a distant relation, someone the Hamelmarks have known for years, so she probably decided he was an easy option."

"You _think_ so?"

"See, the thing is, she wouldn't actually tell me who she was using as a cover." In hindsight, not surprising, given who the cover had turned out to be.

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Mordulf said. "You're dating Solwen Hamelmark. But her father doesn't know, and she doesn't want him to know for reasons we can all surmise, so she told him she's dating your bike mechanic instead."

"Correct," Eomer said.

"But she didn't tell you she was using your bike mechanic as a cover."

"No."

"Well, that's a frightfully interesting conversation you're going to have when you next see her."

Eomer grinned. "Not half as interesting as the one I'm going to have with Brendal tomorrow." He could almost hear the crying and wailing now…

"Oh, you're not still planning to do that, are you?" Elfhelm complained. He pulled out his phone, muttering swear words under his breath.

"The hell are you doing?" Eomer asked.

"I'm texting Solwen to warn her you're going to be an arsehole about this whole thing, ask her to warn Brendal as well."

Eomer put his cup down to grab Elfhelm's phone. "Hey, give that back," Elfhelm protested, reaching for it.

"No warning anyone," Eomer said, batting Elfhelm's hand away to erase what Elfhelm had started of the text message.

"Please don't be mean to Brendal," Elfhelm pleaded. "He doesn't deserve it. He's just your bike mechanic. The poor bastard's done nothing wrong."

"Shockingly, I'm going to have to throw my money in with Elfhelm here," said Mordulf. "It _does_ sound as if Brendal's been caught in the middle."

"I'm not going to be an arsehole about it, I promise," Eomer said. "I'm just going to indulge in some gentle teasing at Brendal's expense. And then I'm going to give him a raise, to thank him for being so discreet about the whole matter." Eomer offered the phone, holding it just out of reach. "So, no warning anyone. Not Brendal. Not Solwen. Not Erland. Got it?"

"Erland?" Mordulf repeated, looking from Eomer to Elfhelm and back. "Why do I know that name as well?"

Whoops.

Scowling, Elfhelm snatched his phone. "Erland Hamelmark. Lady Solwen's older brother."

Eomer's turn to be 'helpful' now. "Whom Elfhelm is now fucking," he said.

"I'm not fucking him," said Elfhelm hotly. "Not yet, at least."

So, Elfhelm had at least a modicum of restraint…

"Sorry, can we back up and do that again?" said Mordulf, making a slow winding motion. He pointed at Eomer. " _You're_ dating Solwen Hamelmark"—the finger moved to Elfhelm—"and _you're_ dating her older brother?"

"Yes," Eomer and Elfhelm said together.

Mordulf said nothing, but simply blinked.

"You okay there, Mordo?" Eomer asked.

"I'm fine. I'm just trying to decide if I want to go back to the Army, because I think that might be easier than dealing with what I just heard."

Eomer grinned. "Just be glad they don't have another sister, or we'd be trying to hook you up with her."

To Elfhelm, Mordulf said, "When did the two of you meet?"

"Thursday," Elfhelm said. "We were both in the Hall to see the petition rebuttal speeches. Solwen introduced us." He shrugged. "It kind of just developed from there."

"Which is Elfhelm's way of saying they went back to his place and blew each other until they almost died of fluid loss and malnutrition," Eomer explained.

"That's certainly an interesting way to start a relationship, yes." Mordulf's eyes went wide. "Okay, but do your _parents_ know about this?"

Elfhelm sighed. "Not yet, no. I'm going to tell them sometime this week."

Nodding slightly, Mordulf showed a knowing smile. "So, all that back and forth last night, all that stuff about the flowers, that wasn't just a theoretical conversation, was it?" he asked. "That was an _actual_ thing the two of you did."

There was that attention to detail brain again; Mordulf could probably give the Earl of Hamelmark a run for his money. Eomer nodded. "It was indeed."

"Okay, so that means you sent shadow lilies to Lady Solwen," Mordulf started, pointing at Eomer again. He made a face as he turned on Elfhelm. "And you actually sent Fever Dream orchids to mark a first date."

Elfhelm threw up his hands. "What can I say? I like him, and I'm not afraid to express my feelings."

"But Fever Dreams? Really, Elf?" Mordulf said.

"So, you agree with me, then?" said Eomer. "Fever Dreams are completely and utterly over the top?"

Mordulf held up his thumb and finger pinched together. "Just a tiny bit overdone." He smiled. "But also quite impressive. I mean, Elf is right. There's no mistaking what Fever Dreams say."

Bema, not Mordulf as well. Was Eomer the only man in the room with more common sense than a stoat? "You're both nuts," Eomer said, looking from one friend to the other. "You know that, right?"

"Maybe we're both perfectly sane, and you're the emotionally constipated one," Elfhelm said. "You ever think of that?"

"So, you haven't told your parents," Mordulf said to Elfhelm. He turned to Eomer. "And I don't remember Eowyn being in your list of people in the know."

Eomer sighed. "Yeah, I, uh, I haven't told her about Solwen yet."

"Any particular reason?"

"Put it this way," Eomer started. "If you told your mother you'd had three dates with the single, attractive, well-educated daughter of a wealthy, prestigious earl, what would she do?"

Mordulf's response was instant. "She'd start looking for wedding venues. Then she'd contact my girlfriend's mother to find out how regular her cycle is."

Horrifying, but not untrue. "Eowyn would be _exactly_ the same. I mean, maybe not the cycle part, not on the first meeting at least, she might wait and tackle that later, and the venue is less of an issue for us, but she'd definitely start making some lists."

Mordulf shook his head at Elfhelm. "You don't know how lucky you are, that you found a nice way to abdicate out of the whole business completely."

"Nothing to stop you going home and telling your mother you've decided you like men instead. I'll even introduce you to a couple of nice guys I know if you want." Elfhelm's smile was smug. "You can join our little club, invent a secret cover story all of your own."

"Not really the best solution, though, is it?" Mordulf said. "I mean, I _do_ want to get married. I just—"

"You want to do it your own way, and in your own time," Eomer concluded.

"Exactly."

"We need to find you a nice girl," said Elfhelm.

"A nice _Landed_ girl," Mordulf added. "My mother's been extremely clear about that. No commoners at her table."

"Not even a fabulously wealthy one?" Eomer asked.

Mordulf shook his head. "She doesn't care about money. Says we have enough of our own. She just wants a good match, I think was the phrase she used."

Eomer snorted. "At least she didn't talk about your pedigree this time."

"She hasn't _quite_ reduced me to the status of a pure-bred dog yet, no."

"A nice Landed girl, hmm," said Elfhelm, thinking.

"Oh, and preferably from up the precedence, not down," Mordulf added.

"Why the fuck does that even matter?" Eomer asked.

"I have absolutely no idea. At a wild guess, it's all tied up in my mother's ideas of who's acceptable and who's not."

"Makes it even trickier," Elfhelm said. "There's only, what, sixteen families ahead of you in the Order?"

"Seventeen."

Eomer's lips twitched. "I'd offer to set you up with Eowyn, but I like you too much to do that to you."

"You're very kind."

"Can't set you up with a Darkfald, the kids are all sons," Elfhelm said, running through the Landed houses. "One Elgoll, but she's already taken, and I like you too much to do that to you as well. Who else?" he muttered, frowning as he rolled his mug.

"Three Keveleoks, all single, pleasant and attractive, so you'd have your pick there," said Eomer. "Oh, and Lord Camelor's older daughter."

Mordulf shook his head. "Too young on the first. And I'd rather not on the second, thank you."

"You don't want the high-and-mighty Lord Camelor as a father-in-law, then?"

"Not to be too dramatic, but I think I'd rather just let Fastmer shoot me."

Some feelings were universal, it seemed…

"Strone's sisters are all married already. Same with Hereoch's daughters," Elfhelm continued. "Larsbrook's the same as Darkfald, all sons. Hmm."

"If you want, I could introduce you to Seorsa Camelor," Eomer offered.

Mordulf snorted into his tea. "You know, I'm half-tempted to take you up on that, just to see the look on my mother's face."

"She _is_ extremely attractive," Elfhelm said.

"And between the three of us, _extremely_ entertaining," Eomer quietly added.

"Your Majesty, _really_ ," said Mordulf, frowning in mock disapproval. "That's awfully ungentlemanly of you."

"Not as ungentlemanly as what I did to her the last time I saw her."

Snickering, Mordulf asked, "And tell me, does your new lady friend know about your last one?"

Elfhelm pricked up. "Gods, yes, that reminds me, Seorsa was there on Thursday as well. In the Hall, I mean. She and Solwen might have met."

"They did meet. And it's fine," Eomer said. "We talked it through on Thursday night. Solwen knows all about it, and also that it was done and over by the time we met."

Elfhelm scrunched his face. "Yes, except that's not _entirely_ true, is it?"

So, now Elfhelm was paying attention to details as well? Bema save him from all these attentive people. "I last saw Seorsa the evening of the Folca Cup Final. That was the week before you and I met Solwen at lunch. I know. I checked."

"But remind me again, when did you tell Seorsa it was officially done?" Elfhelm teased.

Eomer's cheeks reddened again. Into his tea cup, he said, "This Tuesday just past."

"Whoops," said Mordulf.

"Should definitely keep that part to yourself," Elfhelm said, grabbing the coffee pot to refill his cup. "I mean, there's being honest, and there's being stupid, and telling anyone that second part would count as stupid in my book."

Except, when it came to doing stupid things in relationships, Elfhelm had _written_ the book. "There wasn't any intent to deceive anyone behind it," Eomer said. "I just forgot to talk to Seorsa sooner."

"You seem to forget a lot of things," Elfhelm pointed out.

"I'm a busy person, okay? We can't all live a life of leisure like you."

"It's actually a lot of work, you know," said Elfhelm. "Finding suitable ways to fill up your time. It's not as easy as it looks."

"Would you like me to do the 'handing his arse to him on a plate' thing to him again?" Mordulf offered, pointing at Elfhelm with his thumb.

"Please?"

They paused as Heredred arrived with the food, sitting in patient silence as the various plates were set out. When he was done, Heredred drew up straight and said, "Can I bring anyone anything else?"

Elfhelm took a quick poll, shook his head. "Thank you, Heredred. We're good for now."

Pausing to give a smart bow, Heredred withdrew.

"I was just thinking," Mordulf said, flipping his napkin into his lap.

Elfhelm wagged a finger at him. "Never a good idea. Thinking, I mean. Gets you into all sorts of trouble."

"You haven't told Eowyn about your thing with Solwen," Mordulf went on, "because you're worried she'll start making lists for a wedding."

"That's most of it, yes," Eomer said. "Plus, I just want some privacy for a while. Even if I wasn't the King, I wouldn't tell her what's happening yet."

Cautiously, Mordulf asked, "So, it's not because you're worried she won't approve?"

"Of what?"

"Of you getting involved with a Hamelmark."

"Not at all, no." He remembered Eowyn's defence of Solwen, back when they'd discussed inviting her to the Midsummer party. "I know for a fact it won't be a problem for her."

"She doesn't care about the whole peacock killing thing, then?" Mordulf asked, smiling slightly.

"Not at all. Or the pissing horse thing." Eomer flicked out his napkin, picked up a sausage to munch it—no Aldona Elgoll to horrify with his lack of cutlery here. "She knows that's all long in the past. And if she thought badly of them, she would never have invited them to the Midsummer party."

"There is that, yes." Frowning, Mordulf toyed with his eggs.

"What's wrong?" Elfhelm asked.

"It's just… you _do_ realize, that even if we don't disapprove"—Mordulf gestured from himself to Elfhelm—"and even if Eowyn doesn't disapprove, that other people almost certainly will?"

"Like who?" Eomer said.

"Like your grandmother, for one. I obviously don't know her, but I doubt she's a fan of the Hamelmarks. Not after what the current earl's grandfather did."

Eomer shook his head. "I don't care what my grandmother thinks. Her opinion is irrelevant."

"Really?"

"Really." Eomer started to add something else, bit his tongue, formed a more diplomatic response instead. "My grandmother and I last talked the morning after my birthday party. It didn't go well. The only thing we agreed on is that we have nothing more to say to each other."

Quietly, Mordulf said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. It's for the best."

Elfhelm pushed through the awkward moment. "Mordulf makes a good point, though. There _are_ other people who won't approve. Not just your grandmother."

"Such as?"

"Some members of the Hall, for one," said Mordulf.

Eomer shrugged. "Sucks to be them. We're not in Fengel's reign anymore. The time when the King met with the earls in Council to seek their opinions on royal matters is gone. I don't have to ask the members of the Hall how to reign, and I certainly don't have to consult them about what I do in my private life."

"I know that," said Mordulf gently.

"But?"

"But if you piss them off, the members of the Hall could still make life difficult for you."

"Why the hell would they even want to?"

"Because of who Solwen's father is," Mordulf explained. "If you were dating a Tronvene or a Lindgarn, nobody would give a damn, because the Earls of Tronvene and Lindgarn are as powerless and harmless as two members of the Hall can be."

"But Duncan Hamelmark isn't," said Elfhelm.

"I don't know how much _power_ he has, I think influence might be a more appropriate word, but he is absolutely _not_ harmless, not by a very long way. Not with all the shit he's stirred up over the years, and all the incendiary speeches he's given. He's widely despised on the conservative side of the Hall. To an extent that might surprise even him. There's not a snowball's chance on Mount Doom those conservatives will just sit and watch while you get into a serious relationship with his daughter. Especially not a daughter who's known to share her father's political leanings."

"Would be a dangerous move, to publicly oppose the King's personal choice," Elfhelm said.

"I don't think anyone would ever be foolish enough to _openly_ make trouble for you," Mordulf explained. "But they'd certainly make trouble for you in more underhand ways."

"Such as?"

Mordulf paused to tackle some eggs. "If your thing with Lady Solwen gets out, I guarantee you, the very next day, the dirt will start to show up."

"In the papers, you mean," Eomer said.

Mordulf nodded. "And trust me, there'll be _buckets_ of dirt." He raised a hand as Eomer started to speak. "Not just about Lady Solwen. About the Hamelmarks in general. All the shit everyone in her family has ever done, right back to the very first earl. Any affairs, any bastard children, any murderers or thieves, any drug addicts or gamblers or cheats, any bigamists or adulterers or rapists. All the secrets, all the black sheep. Everything will come out."

"And the tabloids will lap it up," Elfhelm said.

Mordulf spooned some more eggs. "And don't get me wrong, it's not that the Hamelmarks are any worse than any other Landed house. We're _all_ up to our private parts in dirt. There's not a family in the Hall whose history isn't littered with scandals."

"Not ours," said Elfhelm, sighing. "As far as I know, we've all been rather a plodding, obedient bunch."

" _We_ haven't," Eomer said. "We've probably been the worst of the lot. You think of a scandal, I can guarantee, someone somewhere in the House of Eorl has done it." Even the bigamy thing, but the less said about that, the better. He was all for honesty and openness, but only to a certain extent.

Mordulf smiled. "The official histories of the House of Eorl would have us believe you've all been a rather virtuous bunch."

Eomer snorted. "The official histories of the House of Eorl aren't worth the paper they're written on. There's a whole section in the Royal Archives. full of sealed and restricted files that only I can access. The stories in them would honestly make your earls curl."

"I don't doubt it," Mordulf said. "And the Hamelmarks will be the same. But unlike the House of Eorl, they can't use the Official Secrets Act to stop people spilling the beans. So, as soon as a good reason comes up, everything everyone knows about the family will come out."

"So, are you saying I _shouldn't_ date Lady Solwen?" Eomer asked.

"Not at all, no." Mordulf wagged an egg-covered fork at him. "What I am saying is, you need to be ready for what might happen if and when your relationship becomes public knowledge. The response from the Hall might not be pretty. You need to have a plan ready."

"A plan?" Eomer repeated. Bema, was this a relationship, or a war?

Mordulf nodded. "A plan, yes." He grabbed the salt to sprinkle some of his food. "Put it this way. If people find out you're dating Solwen, which member of the Hall do you think will cause the most trouble?"

"Camelor," Eomer instantly said. "He hates my family and the Hamelmarks in equal measure. It would be a no-brainer for him."

"And how do you think he would cause trouble?"

Another easy answer. "He would leak the punching story. It's about something Solwen did herself, so it would damage her directly."

Mordulf nodded. "He'd sit Thelden down with a sympathetic journalist, have him spill out the whole sorry story, paint Thelden as the victim." Cautiously, he added, "Which, from a legal standpoint he was."

Eomer's temper flared. "There was a victim that day, but it certainly wasn't Thelden Camelor. The asshole got what he deserved."

"I don't doubt it," Mordulf said. "The problem is, I don't know for sure. _Nobody_ in the Hall knows for sure. The full story has never come out, because your uncle insisted on handling it as a private matter. Which means, if Camelor leaks the story, unless you get involved to set the record straight, which you can't, it's going to be his word against hers."

"Solwen would tell her side of the story. And trust me, it won't paint Thelden in a good light."

"I'm quite sure it won't. But it's not Thelden you're in a relationship with, is it? It doesn't matter if the story damages him. It's about the damage it would do to Solwen."

"I'm honestly surprised Camelor hasn't leaked the story to the press before now," said Elfhelm.

"He hasn't had a good reason to. The Landed don't take their problems to outsiders unless there's something to gain. We prefer to resolve problems within their own circle." Mordulf waved at Eomer. "Look at what your uncle did. He never called in the police, because he knew if the matter got out, everyone involved would take a reputational hit. Including him. So, he dealt with it all himself. That's why Solwen ended up with a Ban instead of criminal charges."

Eomer could see the logic now. It was twisted, but it was Camelor, so that was hardly surprising. "But if Camelor finds out I'm dating Solwen, the gain of fucking up our relationship would outweigh the pain of airing the Camelor laundry in public."

"Exactly."

"Bema," Elfhelm muttered. "When you put it like that."

"And it won't just be Camelor. Anyone who doesn't like the Hamelmarks, and who has something scandalous to share about them will come crawling out of the woodwork as well."

"You really believe that?" Eomer asked. "You really think that many people will care?"

"I do, yes." Sighing, Mordulf grabbed a pot to refill his tea. "There's a reason your predecessors mostly married foreign women, you know."

Eomer knew where Mordulf was going. "Because a foreign wife is neutral, and doesn't come with the automatic support of a local political faction."

"Exactly."

"Yes, except this is 2020, not 1820," Elfhelm said. "We have a Constitution, nobody does factions now. The King doesn't have to be scared of dating Solwen because it might somehow give her father too much power."

"It won't give him power, no. But it would give him influence and social standing," Mordulf pointed out. "A degree of celebrity, even. And a lot of people in the Hall dislike Duncan Hamelmark enough they wouldn't want him to have even that."

"So, what I'm hearing is, I shouldn't bother with a Landed woman at all?" Eomer said, starting to feel exasperated with the whole topic. "I should find a nice commoner girl to date instead?"

Mordulf grinned. "That might be the safest option, yes. _And_ it's perfectly legal now, since your most recent reforms."

"You could always give Gwenna Freebourn a call," Elfhelm said.

That was revenge for the Erland slip…

"I'm sorry, did you just say Gwenna Freebourn?" said Mordulf, frowning. "As in, the actress?"

Eomer sighed. "Yeah. I, uh, I hooked up with her a while ago."

"Which is His Majesty's way of saying they went back to his place and fucked each other until they left dents in the carpet," Eomer explained.

"That's…" Mordulf sighed and rubbed his head. "Okay, was that before or after your thing with Seorsa?"

This was going to sound bad. "Um, kind of at the same time?"

"Right, so you started a fling with Seorsa Camelor, and while that was going on, you had a… a…"

"A one night stand," said Elfhelm.

"An _assignation_ with Gwenna Freebourn," said Mordulf, taking the politer route. "Then, you ended your thing with Seorsa, but you didn't officially break up with her until _after_ you'd started dating Solwen Hamelmark?"

"When you put it like that, you make me sound like a terrible person."

"I don't think you're a terrible person." A grin spread on Mordulf's face. "But it makes me wonder if you _are_ having a three-way with your bike mechanic after all."

"I give you my word, I'm not having sex with my bike mechanic."

"If you were, would you fuck him over the Celebrant Desk as well?" Elfhelm asked.

Eomer held up a hand. "Okay, can we please stop? I like Brendal. I don't want to have to fire him because I can't look the poor man in the eye."

"Sorry, did Elfhelm just say the Celebrant Desk?" Mordulf asked, brows shooting up.

Time for the next confession. "Yeah. I, uh, Solwen and I, we, uh—"

"He balled her senseless over his desk." Elfhelm leaned in to whisper, "He despoiled a national treasure."

Mordulf's lips twitched. "I'm sure Lady Solwen's quite attractive, but it's a bit much to call her a national treasure."

As Elfhelm dissolved in cackles, Eomer jabbed a fork at Mordulf. "You can fuck off all the way to fuck."

"Over the Celebrant Desk," Mordulf murmured, sighing. "I'm not going to know what on earth to say when I meet her now."

"Have you not met her?" Eomer asked.

"Not that I can recall. I mean, I know who she is obviously, but I don't think I've ever been introduced to her."

"You'll meet her at the Midsummer party."

"Of course, yes."

"You _are_ coming, aren't you?"

"You think I'd miss the opportunity to watch you spend the whole evening pretending you don't know your own girlfriend?" Mordulf snorted. "Please. That's going to be comedy gold. I'll be in the corner with the popcorn and the binoculars."

"I spoke to Fastmer about it last night," said Elfhelm. "We're going to start a betting pool with everyone who's in the know about how many times he almost fucks up."

There was Fastmer's 'helpfulness' again. And Elfhelm's as well. "Please don't," Eomer pleaded. "It's going to be stressful enough as it is. I'm honestly considering asking Solwen to just pretend to be ill on the day."

"That might actually be the safer option," said Mordulf. "In my experience, it's relatively easy to fool a small group of people, but much harder to fool a large group of people. The more people who have eyes on you, the more likely it is someone will notice something is off."

"Is that personal experience, or professional?"

"Professional, mostly. When you work in Military Intelligence, you get to be rather good at figuring out when people are lying. And why they're lying. What they're covering up, and trying to keep you from seeing." Mordulf flashed his brows. "What dirty little secrets they have."

"Oh, and speaking of secrets," Elfhelm started, "Are you going to tell us why you left the Army?"

Mordulf gave a nonchalant shrug. "It's like I said before. Was just time to do something else."

Mordulf might be good at figuring out when people were lying, but he was utterly shit at lying himself. "Mordo, you do know you can trust us, right?" Eomer said, waving from himself to Elfhelm. "Neither of us is your mother. If something happened down in Harad that upset you to the extent you had to leave the Army, you can tell us. We won't judge you."

"Oh, I know I can trust you." Mordulf smiled, but his eyes stayed blank. "But nothing happened, I swear. It was just a mid-thirties career decision. Nothing more, nothing less." He turned his attention to his food, making it clear the subject was done.

Eomer didn't have to be a genius to decode the sideways look Elfhelm shot him.

Elf thought Mordulf was lying, too.

It wasn't just about his career. Something else was going on…


	79. Chapter 79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after at the Hamelmark house. Solwen realizes clothing repair isn't one of her talents. Arwen has a tactful chat with Lothiriel about the banquet.
> 
> Warning for one use of the c-word.

The living room looked like a morgue. Smelled a little like one as well—clean on top, but with something rotten underneath, as if someone had sprayed an air freshener in a room full of farts.

Bodies lay in various places—pale, slumping, glassy-eyed; scratching, sniffing, twitching, sighing—the listless, supine living dead. The only sound came from the TV, tuned to a Sunday morning cartoon, but with the volume set so low it might as well not even be on.

The body on the nearest couch groaned—Astalor, not quite ready to call it quits yet, still trying to fight the good fight.

"Did I miss the memo about it being the zombie apocalypse this morning?" Solwen said as loudly as she could, scanning the wretched, pitiful scene. What an amazing example of virile manhood the four figures made; a three-year-old could kick all their asses. Not that she was running on all thrusters herself, but at least she was washed, dressed and moving around, not lolling on the couch as if she was waiting for the Great Hunter to claim her.

Erland squeezed his eyes shut, gestured for her to keep the noise down. "For the love of Bema, don't talk, please," he pleaded, pulling a cushion into his chest as if his life depended on it. "It hurts too much."

Given what she'd seen him drink last night, she absolutely didn't doubt it. Chasing mead with voda shots was never a good idea. Chasing _anything_ with voda shots, for that matter…

A sound behind her made her turn, but it was just her dad, washed and dressed, bringing in the milk and paper from the front step. He smiled as he saw her. "Morning, sweet pea," he said, coming to kiss her on the side of the head. "How you feeling? You get enough sleep?" Based on the briskness of his movements, he seemed to be feeling pretty chipper himself. Either that, or he was still roaring drunk, and just faking it like an absolute pro.

"Sweet pea, Bema," Darion muttered from the couch, pressing his palms to his eyes. "Who the _fuck_ came up with that?"

Roddig sipped his tea and added, "She's about as sweet as a kick in the crotch."

Which might be what Roddig got if he didn't shut that yammering hole that passed for a mouth…

"I slept fine," Solwen said to her dad, her sudden yawn contradicting her claim. "Didn't feel so good when I first woke up, but I just had a shower, that really helped." As had Eomer's text message; she was just annoyed she hadn't noticed it when he'd sent it the night before. "A few cups of tea and some painkillers will fix the rest." She flicked the switch on the kettle, grabbed a mug and the teabags from the cupboard. "What about you?" she asked.

"Fine so far." He threw the paper on the table, opened the milk to empty the carton into a waiting jug. "Better than Friday, and much better than I expected." Grinning, he added, "But I didn't touch the mead this time. I think that really helped."

Astalor groaned. "Bema, don't say that word, please," he pleaded, pretending to cry, burying his face in his hands. "Even hearing it makes me want to vomit into my shoes. I swear, I can smell the stuff coming out of my skin."

"You know how it works, kiddo," their dad called out. "You're a full adult now. No excuses. You can't do the time, don't do the crime."

And if drinking too much booze was a crime, everyone in the house had earned at _least_ a ten year sentence last night…

"Pretty sure the only crime being committed last night is what Roddy did to the national anthem," said Erland.

"Not my fault you don't appreciate good music," Roddig said. "And it's called satire. It's perfectly legal. Look it up."

She didn't remember anyone singing the national anthem; that must have been after she'd thrown in the towel and crawled up to bed. "Was it bad?" she said to her dad, who'd probably stayed to the bitter end. If only to make sure nobody fell asleep in the garden or left all the doors and windows unlocked.

He snickered. "I remember a line about the King having sex with his horse, so I'm going to answer in the affirmative there."

That didn't seem _too_ treasonous—at least it hadn't been a line about overthrowing the monarchy instead. Which wouldn't be entirely out of order for Roddy, given what kind of songs he seemed to like singing. A successful recruitment consultant by day, a would-be rebel leader by night. "To be honest, I'm actually surprised there isn't a reference to that in the anthem already," she said.

"This _is_ Rohan," her dad said. "I won't speak for our current King, but I'm quite sure somebody in the House of Eorl has tried to get it on with his prettiest filly."

"Fengel," Roddig volunteered. "If it was anyone, it would be him. He was a dirty wee prick. Fucked anything that moved."

At least Eomer was _slightly_ more discerning than that…

"And while we're on the subject," Darion started with a grin that made Solwen's gut clench. "How's Brendal doing this morning? He still in one piece?"

Why a King having sex with his horse had made Darion think of Brendal, Solwen wasn't entirely sure. "No idea. I haven't checked in with him." But Brendal had paced himself with the booze, and he'd ~~escaped~~ gone home just before the truly epic drinking had started, so he probably wasn't faring too bad.

"What the hell kind of girlfriend are you?" said Roddig. "If you haven't even called to check in on him?"

A little ironic, coming from a guy who'd apparently perfected the art of sneaking out of women's bedrooms in the small hours. "The kind of girlfriend who doesn't want or need to mother her boyfriend, prefers to let him have his own space."

"Aye, I noticed that."

Instantly, Solwen's hackles kicked in. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, watching the two of you last night, if you hadn't told us you were dating, I wouldn't think he was your boyfriend at all." Roddig scrunched his nose. "Was like you were having dinner with your accountant."

That wasn't good. Roddig wasn't the most observant or deductive of people. If _he'd_ picked up on her and Brendal's lack of romantic 'interaction', what the hell might her eagle-eyed father have spotted and now be coming to conclusions about? They might have to up the stakes, use some silly pet names, hold an occasional hand. Or, even better, just never do anything near her family ever again.

"We're not all into public displays of saliva sharing, you know," said Erland, helping her cover, coming to her defence. "Some of us prefer to keep our feelings about our romantic partners to ourselves."

Darion snorted. "Your new boyfriend certainly doesn't."

"I guess that means you're not seeing Brendal today?" her dad said, flicking the paper out to scan the front page.

Hackles receding, Solwen shook her head. "He's got some other things to do." Now to lay the foundation for the next lie. "But I'm seeing him tomorrow night. Later, once he's finished at work."

"Oh, yeah? Got anything interesting planned?"

She certainly did. But not with Brendal. And nothing she wanted to share. "Not sure. We'll see what we're in the mood for when the time comes."

"He could always take you for a nice ride," said Roddig, in a tone that told her he didn't mean on a bike.

"Aye, and you could always shut your fucking mouth, but there's apparently no prospect of that happening anytime soon, is there?" she said.

"Children," her dad warned as Erland snickered and Darion made a high-pitched 'oohing' sound. "Play nice, please. Don't make me put you all in separate corners with your hands on your heads for the rest of the day."

As if that would help; they would just taunt and bitch at each other from opposite sides of the room. "He fucking started it," Solwen muttered.

Roddig shot back, "Aye, and I'll fucking finish it as well, if you meet me outside."

"Roddig Einar Hornebolt," her dad coldly pronounced. Full names; somebody was in serious fucking trouble now. "Did I just hear you threaten my daughter? While I'm standing right here? In my own bloody house?"

"Ignore him, please, he's not worth the hassle," a weary Erland said before Roddig could answer. He rubbed the side of his probably-pounding head. "He's just being a whiny bitch because he's really hungover." He smirked. "And because Solly's getting some, but he isn't."

"Oh, go fuck yourself," said Roddig, whether to her dad or Erland, Solwen wasn't quite sure. Either way, it wasn't the most diplomatic of answers.

"For the love of Bema, Roddy, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" her dad asked.

Snickering, Astalor added, "The only thing he's kissing with it, apparently."

"Except his own hand," Darion added.

Roddig turned his scowl on his twin brother. "You're supposed to be on _my_ side," he said, tapping his thumb to his chest. "It's supposed to be Hornebolts over Hamelmarks, remember? Us regular common folk against these swanky Landed bastards."

"Aye," Darion acknowledged. "Except, you _are_ being a bit of a cunt."

Solwen snorted. "Only a bit?"

"Okay, enough," her dad thundered, pointing at each of them in turn. "No calling each other that word before noon. This is a supposed to be a civilized house."

Which just went to show how low their bar for 'civilized' was…

"Sorry," Darion meekly offered; Roddig crossed his arms and sank into the couch.

"Speaking of things being civilized," Solwen said to her dad as the kettle started to boil, "I haven't seen Nediriel yet. She feeling okay?"

"She's fine. Just tired, wanted to have a lie in."

She certainly deserved it, after all the cooking and dinner prep work she'd done. Plus, if she stayed in bed, she wouldn't have to listen to Roddy being a whiny smartarse. She should maybe have tried that tactic herself. "And what about grandpa? Where's he?"

Her dad pointed at the back door. "He's out in the garden. But I wouldn't interrupt him if I were you. Best to leave him be."

That could only mean one thing. "He talking to granny again?" On the bench in the bottom level—her late grandmother's favourite quiet time spot, where she would go when the pressures of work were getting to her. Solwen could just see her now, sitting with her feet tucked up, a book or a magazine in one hand, a cup of tea or a glass of her favourite wine in the other. It made her eyes prick just thinking about it.

Her dad nodded. "Probably telling her about Erland's new man, complaining about what a bunch of drinking lightweights all her grandchildren are turning out to be."

Not necessarily a terrible thing. And what was he telling her about her thing with Brendal, she wondered? Would granny's ghost approve, or would she be spinning in her metaphorical grave? The former, most likely; she'd always been quite fond of Brendal as well. Although, if ghosts were actually a thing, granny's probably knew fine well who she was _really_ seeing…

The kettle popped; Solwen grabbed it to fill her mug, spent a minute dunking her bag. The bag came out, the milk and sugar went in, she stirred, threw the spoon in the sink and made a beeline for the door.

"That it, then?" Roddig taunted. "You had enough of us already?"

Of him, absolutely, yes. The longer she stayed, the higher the chance she and Roddy would come to verbal or physical blows. Best to just avoid the situation completely for now. "I'm taking care of something upstairs." Something her text convo with the King had reminded her was still on her plate. "And then I'm going to have another nap. I'll catch up with you all at lunch."

Up in her room, she placed her tea on her bedside table, grabbed the bag with the damaged shirt and upturned it to empty it out.

She unfolded the note to read it again.

_Dear Lady Solwen,_

_Could you please arrange for the enclosed shirt to be laundered, repaired and returned to me as promptly as possible?_

_You should know, this is not a request I usually make of the King's personal guests. That being said, the King's personal guests are not usually so clumsy with his clothes._

_Unfortunately, I have not been able to locate all of the shirt's original buttons—I believe some of them may have rolled under the bookcases in His Majesty's office, where they have so far proved impossible to retrieve—so have provided a completely new set for your convenience._

_Sincerely, C. Wincrane._

Bookcases. Office. So, Colwenna knew where the filthy, shirt-ripping deed had gone down. That would make for an interesting next discussion…

She grabbed the shirt to flick it out; a bag of buttons fell onto the bed. A quick check showed five of the buttons down the front of the shirt were missing. But the new buttons weren't exactly the same as the old ones, and one could hardly expect the King to wear a shirt with mismatching fittings, so they would all need to be replaced. And not just on the front—there were buttons on the cuffs as well. And dammit, the cuffs had four buttons each; two rows of two. Trust His Blessed Majesty to have expensive, high-end taste. He couldn't buy the cheap ones with only one or two buttons per cuff instead.

She grabbed her sewing kit from a drawer, cracked it open to look for a needle of the right size, found one that looked sturdy enough to sew a man's fingers together. Was it _too_ big? Whatever; it would just have to do. Thread was what she needed next. What colour, hmm. She checked the thread in the undamaged buttons, rummaged through the kit, looking for something that more or less matched. The existing thread was the palest of blues. Would Colwenna notice if she used an off-white instead? A silly question, like asking if water was wet, or if the Earl of Camelor was an arsehole. There would be no fooling that woman. But off-white thread was the best she had, so matching or not, it would just have to do.

Sighing, she unwound a length of the spool, spent a irritatingly large number of seconds working it through the eye of the needle. She shook the buttons out the bag. Ten in all. At the rate she sewed, she was going to be here all bloody day. And she already knew she would want to kill someone by the time she was done. For safety's sake, she might need to stay out of Roddy's way until he'd left the house completely.

She started with one of the smaller cuff buttons, holding it in place with the thumb and index finger of her left hand. She jabbed the needle through from the back, swearing as it hit the rear of the button again and again instead of finding one of the holes. Finally, it found a way through, jabbing right into the fleshy part of her thumb. Gods fucking shitting dammit. She peered at her thumb; a small droplet of red was forming. Barely ten seconds, and she'd already drawn blood. That was a record, even for her.

Enough of this repairing stuff crap. No amount of mind-blowing sex on antique desks was worth this thumb-killing level of hassle…

She set the threaded needle aside, searched the shirt until she found the care label. To her relief, the label had a Q-Code on it. She grabbed her phone to scan the code. A few seconds later, a listing popped up, for a man's luxury Heosen shirt, suggested retail price of £299.95. It was a chunk of money, but money she had, and money she was happy to spend if it spared her the horror of stitching shit together. And look at that. A nearby store could deliver one by two o'clock tomorrow.

It took her all of thirty seconds to purchase the shirt. A clean, new, undamaged shirt with not so much as a thread out of place. She would even take it out of the packing to wash it when it arrived. Although, that would mean having to iron it as well. Hmm. She checked the instruction label again—Dry Clean Only, it said. Yeah, no, not happening, fuck that.

But what to do with the current shirt? Chuck it? Turn it into expensive polishing rags? Launder and donate it? Would anywhere want it with so many buttons missing?

Hmm.

She would keep it as a memento for now. A souvenir of her and Eomer's rather memorable first 'night' together, lipstick stain on the collar and all. A story to add to the pantheon of Hamelmark tales, right after the entry for the peacock killer. Something to amuse her grandchildren with in fifty years' time.

Or outright horrify, more likely…

She found Lothiriel on the south terrace, eyes closed, face up, a slight but blissful smile on her face, basking in the afternoon sun.

Arwen made a clucking sound, loud enough for the princess to hear. "Your Highness, _really_ ," she said. "Didn't your mother ever tell you, a lady should always sit in the shade?

Lothiriel spun, night-dark eyes going wide in shock. Lowering her chin to her chest, she dropped into the deepest and most formal of curtsies—full Gondorian style, sinking almost to the ground. The full skirt of her formal dress billowed out around her, like the petals of an opening flower. She made the curtsy look so easy, and not like a joint-killing movement that sometimes reduced less nimble women to tears. "Your Majesty," Lothiriel said, holding the curtsy for a few seconds before pushing just as gracefully back to her feet. "Forgive me. I didn't hear you arrive. And I wasn't going to stay in the sun for long," she quickly added, missing Arwen's teasing tone. She showed a guilty smile, as if she was about to confess to the most dreadful of crimes. "I just like feeling the warmth on my skin."

And what beautiful skin it was—flawlessly smooth, showing not even the finest of lines. "I won't tell your mother if you won't."

Smiling, Lothiriel dipped her head in thanks. "How can I be of service?"

"I was planning to take a short stroll," Arwen said, gesturing to a tree-covered path leading away from the terrace. "Get some air before the servants call us for lunch. Would care to join me?" She worded it as a question, but Lothiriel would take it as a polite command. When the High Queen of Gondor asked, a princess of the House of Dol Amroth knew better than to refuse.

Lothiriel's head dipped again. "Of course. I would be honoured."

They made their way to the path, Arwen's two guards trailing a respectful distance behind. Lothiriel was silent, no doubt waiting for her Queen to speak first, as protocol and good manners required. At first, Arwen was silent as well, not quite sure how to raise the subject she wanted to raise. "Aragorn tells me you'll be joining us on our state visit to Edoras in August," she eventually said.

Lothiriel's smile was nervous now. Understandable, given what she was going to Edoras to do. Or attempt to do, rather. Aragorn and Imrahil both believed Eomer would be willing to let Lothiriel at least rebuild the bridge she'd burned down, if not travel across it, but Arwen wasn't so sure. Eomer was a stubborn man, and she knew from discussing the issue with Eowyn just how many wounds Lothiriel's words eight years before had left. She had the horrible suspicion the bridge between the princess and King would stay burned and ruined for a while yet. Perhaps even forever.

Lothiriel nodded. "Fates willing, I will be, yes."

Except, her inclusion in their retinue was nothing to do with the fates, and all to do with her indulgent, loving father's ambitions. "And tell me, how do you feel?" Arwen asked. "About coming with us to Rohan, I mean?"

"Truthfully?"

Arwen laughed. "I would prefer honesty, yes." Iluvatar knew she already heard enough lies.

" _Hellishly_ nervous," Lothiriel said. "Especially about meeting King Eomer again." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Just thinking about the moment when I'll be formally introduced to him makes me want to throw up."

"For the love of Eru, don't throw up on him, please," Arwen pleaded. Grinning, she leaned in to whisper, "Although, saying that, it _will_ be a party in Edoras, so I'll wager good money at least one of the guests will be violently ill at some point." Hopefully, into a sink or a potted plant, and not over His Blessed Majesty's shoes.

"Really?" said Lothiriel, eyes going wide again.

Arwen nodded. "Rohanese social events tend to be, how shall I say, quite well _lubricated_. Not for those with a weak liver." A problem she wouldn't have to deal with herself, given her current condition. "Oh, and don't be surprised if someone starts a fight at some point as well."

"A _fight_?" Lothiriel exclaimed.

"The first time he took me to Rohan, Aragorn warned me, a party in the Golden Hall isn't considered a rousing success until somebody throws a punch."

"That's"—Lothiriel cleared her throat—"that's rather interesting."

Time to scandalize her a little bit more, bump her out of that comfortable Dol Amrothian bubble her father and mother were keeping her in. "The last time we visited, the first punch was thrown by a _woman_."

"Your Majesty," Lothiriel said in a slightly scolding tone. "Now you're teasing me, I think."

"Oh, no," said Arwen, shaking her head. "I saw it with my own two eyes. One of their countesses, if I remember correctly. She'd apparently just discovered her husband was cheating on her with her best friend. Suffice to say, she didn't take the discovery well."

"She punched her _husband_?" Lothiriel's tone was one of pure horror now. "At a formal event in the Meduseld Palace?"

"Yes."

"And what did King Eomer do?"

"As I recall, he started to clap." And not just Eomer—Eowyn and some of the other guests as well. "And then he remembered where he was, and that we were standing beside him, sent one of his guards to break up the fight and escort the couple out of the Palace. He was quite apologetic about the whole thing." But not at all embarrassed.

"I don't think I've ever seen a woman punch someone here," Lothiriel said. "Not at a Court function at least. Can you imagine, how much of a scandal it would cause?"

Arwen slipped her hand through Lothiriel's arm, drawing the younger woman in. "You'll see for yourself once you're there, it'll probably shock you a little at first, but Rohanese women, well, they're not as"—what diplomatic word to use—"not as _reserved_ about certain matters as we are."

"What kind of matters?"

Arwen shrugged. "All manner of things. What they drink, what they eat, how they dress, who they marry, where they work, what they say, how and when and why they say it." She glanced around, making sure nobody was listening in. "How many lovers they have." And whether their lovers were men or women, but best not to mention that yet. The trip was going to be eye-opening enough for Lothiriel as it was.

" _Before_ marriage?"

Arwen nodded. "And after as well, if they feel like it." Not that it never happened in Minas Tirith. She was quite sure some of her highest born ladies were trading husbands as if they were popular recipe cards. All strictly out of sight, of course. Never out in the open for other people to see. And only once a son and heir had been born.

"Is it true, the Rohanese allow women to serve in their Army?" Lothiriel asked, as if a female soldier was the most incredulous of things.

"They do, yes. In all their security forces, I think, including the police. They're far more equitable than us in that regard." She almost said 'advanced', but that would imply Gondor was the less progressive nation, and that would never do. "Some of King Eomer's guards are women. And the Royal Household is run by a woman." The mighty and terrifying Colwenna—a woman even the equally mighty Denethor would think twice about crossing.

"And they have a female Prime Minister." A statement, not a question.

"That's right."

Lothiriel sighed. "So strange, when you think about it. And so very different from how it is here."

Arwen wondered which part Lothiriel meant—the fact Rohan had an elected Prime Minister, or that the Prime Minister was a woman. "But not in a negative way," she said. She leaned in closer again to whisper, "Between you and me, I think we could sometimes do with a little more feminine influence here."

"I quite agree," Lothiriel whispered back, "but I'm not entirely sure the Council of Princes would feel the same way."

"They're all men. Of course they wouldn't." Prince Imrahil might—he seemed to value his daughter just as much as his sons. More, in some ways. But he was an outlier in that regard—most of Gondor's Princes held far more traditional views.

"It actually makes me all the more eager to go," Lothiriel said. "I mean, I'm nervous about meeting the King, but it's going to be rather exciting as well. I've travelled to a few places, but only other cities in Gondor. This will be my first time in another country." Her voice dropped to a whisper again. "Boromir has promised to take me to something called a roller derby. Do you know what that is?"

A roller derby, dear Gods. She might have to have a calming word in Boromir's ear, persuade him to take his cousin to a genteel museum instead. "Vaguely, yes. It's a sport of sorts, played mostly by women. Quite… _vigorous_ , I think would be the best way to describe it." At least he wasn't promising to take her to a cage fight or a private gentlemen's club…

"I read an article on the web, it looks absolutely fascinating," said Lothiriel, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "I'm so excited. I can't wait."

This whole matter might not be as simple as Arwen had hoped. "Tell me, then," she said. "If circumstances were to change, and you discovered you _couldn't_ go to Edoras after all, how would you feel?"

Lothiriel stopped, frowning at her. "Forgive me, but I'm not sure I understand."

"You _do_ know, your father wheedled an extra place for you?" Arwen explained. "That he was originally only given four places?"

"Yes?"

She chose her next words with care. "What if there had been a _misunderstanding_ , and that extra place wasn't really extra after all, what would you do?"

Arwen could see Lothiriel thinking furiously on her feet, trying to come up with a response that was honest, but diplomatic as well. She was so very much her father's daughter. "I would be disappointed," she said giving the honest part first. "But I would understand, it was just one of those things." Lothiriel forced a smile. "An example of the fates not cooperating for once."

So tactful. Such a consummate politician. "So, if, for some reason, you _couldn't_ go, you would be gracious about it?" Arwen asked.

"Of course," Lothiriel quickly said. She dipped her head. "My first duty is to the Crown. If the Crown decides it would be better if I didn't attend, I would do as the Crown demands. Without question."

For once, that was _exactly_ what Arwen wanted to hear…

She caught Aragorn coming out of a meeting, tugging his sleeve to quickly pull him aside.

"I spoke to Lothiriel," Arwen said, getting right to the point, knowing they didn't have much time. "Sounded her out about how she would feel if she was disinvited from the oath banquet."

"Really?"

Arwen batted her eyelashes at him. "Not just a pretty face, remember?"

"Oh, I'm well aware of that," he said with a soft smile. "And what did she say?"

Arwen shrugged. "What you would expect a nice, well-bred Dol Amrothian princess to say. That she would be disappointed, but would do as she was told."

"As she was _told_?" Aragorn repeated.

"She interpreted it as something that would come from us, I think. A decision of the House of Gondor. Not as something that would come from Edoras."

"And you didn't feel the need to correct her," he said, openly grinning now.

"You know what they say about looking a gift horse in the mouth."

"Your Majesty, _really_. That's a _terrible_ way to describe Her Highness."

She swatted him on the arm. "I assume you haven't heard anything from Eomer yet?"

Aragorn shook his head. "Not a word. And I've had Faramir on the alert for an incoming call."

"Which means Eomer still hasn't seen the list."

"Or, he's seen it and he doesn't mind, so hasn't felt the need to ask me about it," Aragorn suggested.

She laid a tender hand on his cheek. "Such an eternal optimist, my love," she said.

"Someone has to be." He took the hand to gently kiss it. "But thank you for laying the groundwork. If the worst comes to the worst, and we need to remove Lothiriel, the news won't come as so much of a shock."

"Her father won't like it," Arwen warned. "He'll see it as an insult to his daughter's honour." Although, if the truth of what Lothiriel had said to Eomer eight years ago ever became public knowledge, she wouldn't have any honour left to insult. She would be absolutely, _utterly_ ruined.

"You leave Imrahil to me. I'll handle him. Don't worry."

Arwen sighed. "When do I ever worry?"


	80. Chapter 80

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elisend wraps up her Solstice weekend, Thenwis makes a decision, Elfhelm has a surprise visitor.
> 
> Warning for mild smut and sexual language.

What a shitshow of a weekend; time to pack up and get the hell out.

She should never have come, Romengar family dinner be damned. She should have stayed in the city instead, spent the Solstice night on her own, or phoned Solly, wangled a place at the Hamelmark table. Solly's family would have made room for her; they were good people that way.

Elisend wasn't sure what part of the visit she'd hated the most—her father's vacant-eyed refusal to admit he'd done anything wrong, her mother's bouts of nerve-shredding tears, Gamulf's craven, spineless silence, Theonara's shit-stirring malice or Winnick's spiteful, sneering snark. At least she'd been able to spend some quality time with her nephew and niece. It wasn't stretching the truth to say Alienor and Stefon had been two of the best behaved people in the whole house.

She threw a pair of heels in the case, brought the lid down to zip the case up. There was no point in staying longer; the sooner she got back to Edoras, the better. Her apartment wasn't much—a cupboard compared to the Romengar holding, or even to Romengar House—but at least it was hers, bought with money she was earning herself. And only hers. Something nobody in her family would _ever_ be able to touch.

Her mobile phone buzzed. She grabbed it to swipe it open, hoping it might be a message from Solly. They hadn't spoken anywhere near enough this week, but that had mostly been her own fault—the stupid project at work. To her disgust, the call wasn't from Solly, but from Sholah Farradale, of all people—one of the ~~bitches~~ women who worked in her office. They hated each other's guts, so this message wouldn't be anything good.

 _Joke for you_ , the first message read, quickly followed by, _How many Romengars does it take to change a lightbulb?_

There was no way she was taking the bait. If Sholah was waiting for Elisend to respond, she was going to have a long bloody night.

Something Sholah soon figured out. _Zero_ , said the next message, then, _Want to know why?_

Of course she fucking didn't.

_Because a Romengar just stands up and says nothing actually needs to be changed._

She wanted to throw the phone at the wall. This was her father's fuck-up on Thursday coming to bite them all in the ass. It would be _weeks_ before the taunting died down. Months, even. Tears pricking, Elisend opened the menu, selected the option to block the incoming number. She had nothing more to say to that cow. Either now, or in the office tomorrow.

The office, oh Gods. There was a trial she still had to face. Everyone would be laughing at her behind her back. Or right to her face, in Sholah's case. As if Sholah's high and mighty politician mother had never made her own share of dreadful mistakes.

And Bema, if she had to hear that _stupid_ story about how Sholah's older sister had gone to dinner with the King _one more fucking time_ , Elisend would hang herself. And maybe even Sholah as well. _One_ dinner. One _fucking_ dinner. And a formal dinner at that, with half a dozen other guests, out of which absolutely _nothing_ had come. The way Sholah told the tale, you would think it had been a romantic dinner for two which had left His Majesty on the verge of popping the question.

A knock at the door, a smirking Winnick stuck his head in.

Just what she needed.

Winnick waved his phone at her. "You'll never believe what amazing gossip Cennie just shared."

Cennie, Bema. If it wasn't her two-faced bitch of a sister-in-law, or her spiteful bitch of a co-worker it was her gossiping bitch of a cousin. Sometimes, she couldn't believe she and Cennie were even related. Couldn't believe the parents who'd produced someone as lovely as Elfhelm had also produced that venomous cow.

And she honestly couldn't give a damn for whatever Cennie was bleating about. "You're right. I won't," she said in a bored tone.

"Not even if it's about your tame Marcher friend, the Hamelmark girl?"

Instantly, Elisend's hackles kicked in. For the sake of keeping the peace, she'd bitten her tongue every time someone had said something cruel about the Hamelmarks in the last forty-eight hours. No more. She was tired of having to sit in silence while her parents attacked her best friend, and a family that had never been anything but generous to her. She was about to leave; she didn't care about the peace now. "Don't call her that. She has a name."

Winnick shrugged. "Whatever. You know who I mean."

"What about her?" Elisend said, still trying to sound bored, but feeling a little bit worried. Why the _hell_ would Cenefer have anything to say about Solly?

"Did you know she's got a new man?"

"Actually, yes, I did." Just not who the new man was.

Grinning, Winnick added, "And did you know he's a motorcycle mechanic?"

Irritation stirred in Elisend's gut. She hadn't known that—Solly still wasn't sharing much about her relationship with her. Which was fine—Elisend understood how important privacy was to her friend—but why the fuck did _Cenefer_ know when she still didn't? Wasn't _she_ supposed to be Solly's best friend? "Really?" was all she said.

Winnick nodded. "And get this. He's a Marcher as well. _And_ he's her distant cousin. _And_ he works for the King. In the garage, up at the Palace."

Tears threatened to flow again. It was stupid, how sidelined hearing that made her feel. "How the fuck does Cenefer know all that?"

"Erella Darkfald told her last night. And Duncan Hamelmark told Erella." The grin returned. "Did you know Erella dated him for a while? When they were younger, before she was married? Can you imagine that?" He sighed. "Always thought she was more of a goer than that proper front of hers lets on. Bet she did some really kinky shit with him."

She couldn't deal with this. Not after all the other crap she'd dealt with this weekend already. "Winnick?"

"What?"

"No offense, but could you please fuck off?"

Winnick scowled. "Don't get snippy with me. Not my fault your so-called best friend isn't telling you stuff she's apparently happy to share with other people."

As always, he knew exactly where to punch her. Fighting back tears, she grabbed her coat. "At least I have a best friend. Not just a bunch of hangers-on who'll dump you the minute you can't afford to cover their tab." Which might not be too long from now, based on what she'd heard her parents arguing about last night.

"I dunno. Sounds to me like that's exactly what you have. I mean, how much have you seen her since she got her new man?"

"I've been busy with a project at work," she said, her excuse sounding lame even to her own ears. "And I'm meeting her for drinks on Tuesday."

"I'm sure she'll give you all the sordid details then."

"I'm sure she will." She buttoned her coat. "And you know what? I don't give a flying _fuck_ what her boyfriend does for a living," she spat. "As long as he's honest and kind and decent and good, I'll be fucking delighted for her."

"But a bike mechanic? Really?"

"A bike mechanic who probably has more influence with the King than any of us ever will." Then, before she could stop herself, "Especially after what happened on Thursday."

Winnick's smirk dropped into a scowl. He sometimes forgot she knew exactly where to punch him as well. "Don't talk about that," he said in a threatening tone. "It was all that bastard Hamelmark's fault. Dad didn't do anything wrong."

"If you actually believe that, you're as blind and stupid as he is." She grabbed her case to pull it onto the floor. "You all are. You all deserve each other."

He stepped close; it took every ounce of courage she had not to step away. "You should be ashamed of yourself, you know," Winnick said. "Having that piece of trash as a friend. After what her father just did."

"Dad did it to himself," she said. "And I don't think anyone who did what you did in February has a right to tell other people to feel ashamed."

His cheeks flushed, the muscles in his jaw twitched. "That's none of your fucking business."

"And neither is who I consider a friend. So, if you don't mind, get the fuck out of my way." And out of her whole bloody life…

He glowered, trying to think of something pithy to say, gave up, nodded curtly and left.

The sob erupted; shoulders heaving, she sank onto her bed, clasping her hand to her mouth, keeping her misery to herself. She couldn't let anyone hear; she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing how much it all hurt. Why was her family such a hateful, horrible bunch of people? Why couldn't she have nice parents and nice brothers instead? A dad like Uncle Tommen? A brother like Elfhelm or Erland?

She wiped her eyes and grabbed her phone, swiping until she found Solly's number. _We need to talk_ , she typed. Her thumb hovered over the button; swearing, she deleted the message. First rule of texting—never text mad. Solly might not have been the most communicative of friends in the last week or so, but Elisend's family problems weren't her fault. She deserved a bit of a ticking off, but not to be burdened with Elisend's rage.

Elisend would see her on Tuesday, bring the whole issue up then…

Thenwis stood behind the sheers, this time, watching a Countess leave instead of an Earl arrive.

The meeting hadn't been anywhere near as unpleasant as she'd expected. No swearing, no shouting, no tears. No attempts to shift the blame, no refusing to face the truth, no threats of violent retribution. Instead, Keveleok had calmly acknowledged that matters hadn't gone as well as she'd hoped, then quietly offered an apology of a sorts. She'd also made it abundantly clear she would play no further part in any extension of the petition, but Thenwis had expected that. Keveleok was the kind of person who knew when the battle was done. She'd fought as well and hard as she could; now, she was limping off the field to quietly lick her wounds. She would be back in action in the Hall soon, but not to fight this particular war.

It had all seemed so simple at first. All the advantages she'd had on her side, including the backing of three prominent Lords. But ultimately, it had all been for nothing. She'd actually thought she had a good chance, especially after Keveleok's speech, but as she'd watched the rebuttals being delivered on Thursday, she'd realized she was wasting her time. Even before Romengar had dropped his bomb, the writing had been on the wall. It had been the single most uncomfortable hour of her life.

She couldn't believe she'd been so naïve. He'd made it sound so simple, as if she had absolutely nothing to lose, and literally a kingdom to gain. She was furious with herself, at how far she'd let him reel her in. Eomer had been right. Camelor _had_ used her. Played her like a silly, stupid, cheaply-strung harp.

What was done, was done. There was no going forward with her petition from here. She was never going to be Queen, so being Thenwis Colafell would just have to do. All in all, not the most unpleasant of fates.

The door opened, her mother came to stand beside her. "That wasn't too bad," she said, showing a supportive smile. "Quite civilized, really. She even had the cup of tea we gave her."

But not the slice of cake, which lay untouched on a china plate. "I expected her to be angry with me."

"She's probably furious underneath. But she's smart enough to know it's not you she needs to be furious with." Eldwis went to load the teacups onto a tray. "She'll have a few other names on her hit list before yours, trust me."

"Darkfald," Thenwis said. Anger and shame washed through her as she spat the next name. "Hamelmark."

"Those two, yes. But Romengar as well, I suspect."

Thenwis huffed a snort. "He'll be on a lot of people's hit lists this week. Not just Keveleok's." They way he'd messed up, even his wife and kids might have it in for him.

"I suspect Lady Keveleok might have a bad-tempered word or two to say to Lord Camelor as well."

"Because he left her to swing in the wind." In hindsight, another sign Camelor wasn't a man you could trust. If only she'd been able to see back then what she could see so perfectly clearly now. "Because he set her up to take the fall if it all went wrong." Which it had, in a rather catastrophic way.

"I'm sure that's a mistake the Countess will only make once."

"It's a mistake I'll only make once as well," Thenwis said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, I'm having nothing more to do with him either. I'll meet with him, just like I met with Keveleok here, make it clear the whole thing is over." She didn't imagine the meeting would be quite as civilized as today's, but the sooner she did it, the sooner she could put this behind her and get on with her life.

"That’s a good idea," her mother said. "And best to do it soon, I think, before he comes up with another plan."

What other plan could Camelor have? "I'll email him tonight," she said. "Invite him over tomorrow."

A nice, warm, comforting bath. What better way to finish his Solstice weekend?

He kicked off his slippers, threw off his robe, grabbed his loofah and swung a foot in.

The clapper on the front door banged—three rapid, deliberate raps.

"You have _got_ to be kidding," Elfhelm said. He stood for a moment, half in, half out, weighing what to do next. Who the _hell_ would be at his front door at seven o'clock on a Sunday night? It couldn't be anyone he knew—they would call to let him know they were coming, not just turn up out of the blue.

Whoever it was, they would just have to wait. Nothing except a declaration of war was coming between him and this much-needed soak. Decision made, he pulled his other foot in.

The clapper banged again. Three more raps; louder, quicker, a little demanding.

Muttering curses under his breath, Elfhelm climbed out of the bath, drying his feet on the mat as he picked up his robe.

"Just a minute," he shouted out. He ducked into his bedroom to grab his jeans, pulling them on as he made for the door. "Be right there." He pressed his right eye to the viewer, squinted, jerked away in shock. What the _hell_? He disengaged all the locks, pulled the door open, and there was Erland Hamelmark, casually (but beautifully) dressed, a small backpack at his feet, what looked like a suit carrier slung over his shoulder.

"The bloody hell are you doing here?" Elfhelm demanded.

"Well, 'hello' to you, too," was Erland's bemused response.

Okay, that maybe hadn't been the best way to start. "Sorry, it's just, I wasn't expecting you tonight. I thought we were going to get together tomorrow." And by 'get together' he meant 'find out how many times two people could have sex in one night'.

Erland shrugged. "My impetuous nature got the better of me." He slipped the carrier off his shoulder, nudged the backpack with his foot. "I, uh, I brought my work clothes for tomorrow. Thought maybe I could stay over, we could make a night of it."

"You could have texted me first."

A smile spread on Erland's face. "I wanted it to be a surprise." The smile faltered a little. "But maybe that wasn't such a good idea."

"No, it's fine." More than fine—it was absolutely _fantastic_.

Erland waved at the door. "Okay, well, are you going to let me in, or leave me out on your doorstep all night?"

He was really failing in his host duties tonight. He stepped aside, pulling the door all the way in. "Sorry, of course, where are my manners, come in, please."

Erland stepped in, letting the door swing over behind him. He tossed his gear on the floor, then, without so much as a warning smirk, grabbed Elfhelm by his robe and pushed him up against the door, making it judder in its frame. "Wh—" was all Elfhelm managed to say before Erland silenced him with a kiss. And not a tender, welcoming kiss. A hot, messy, demanding kiss with only one message.

His poor loofah would just have to wait…

"Well, hello to you as well," Elfhelm gasped when a heavy-eyed Erland finally came up for air. "You have a marvellous way of greeting people."

Grinning, Erland licked his lips. "So I've been told." Before Elfhelm could respond, Erland was on him again. A tongue was in his mouth, hot breath caressed his cheek, hands unfastened his robe to grab him around the waist.

Elfhelm shivered at the touch. "Your hands are cold."

"You can warm them up for me," Erland said. He pulled back, scrunching his face, looking Elfhelm up and down. "But why the fuck are you wearing jeans with a _robe_?"

Elfhelm looked down, realizing the combination probably made him look like a pimp. "You interrupted me. I was just about to take a bath."

"Really?" Erland shucked out of his coat, threw it on top of his bags, kicked off his shoes, freed his t-shirt from of his jeans. "Why? Did you do something today that made you feel dirty?"

Elfhelm wasn't quite sure what to make of Erland's strange mood. Different from his mood on Thursday. He seemed awfully… _focused_ , would be the best word to use. Driven, even. "I just needed a soothing soak. Bath's big enough for two, you could join me if you want," he offered. "Wash my back for me. Tell me all about your day."

"Day was fine," Erland said, still with that determined, almost feral expression. "And I'd rather fuck you over the sink than wash you."

That was… _nice_ , Elfhelm supposed? But just a _tiny_ bit unsubtle as well? "I'm sure we can get to that in good time."

Elegant fingers grasped Elfhelm's face, a hot mouth was on his again, harder, hungrier than before. A knee pushed between his legs, a groin ground into his hip, shoving him back against the door. There was no mistaking why Erland was here. He knew what he wanted, and he'd come to get it. But Bema, would a little elegance go amiss? "Easy, My Lord," Elfhelm said, pressing Erland's chest to hold him away. Not that he didn't want the same thing, but whatever they were about to do, he wanted to do it at the right pace. "No need to rush, there's plenty of time."

The elegant fingers dropped to his jeans. Already, really? Right here, in the hall, up against the cold, unyielding wood of a door? Elfhelm liked to keep things lively, but this was just a little _too_ much. "Okay, do you _all_ do this?" he demanded to know, pushing Erland away.

Focus broken, Erland pulled back. "Sorry?"

"You Hamelmarks. Do you all do this?"

"Do what?"

" _Maul_ people." The word the King had used to describe what Solwen had done to him on Thursday. She'd apparently _bitten_ him, of all things…

The smile that spread on Erland's face—dangerous and teasing and coy. "Are you telling me you don't want to be mauled?"

"Course I want to be mauled." Then ridden hard and put away exhausted and trembling and wet. "But why all the rush?"

"Is there something else you'd rather be doing?"

The Great Hunter give him strength. "Of course there isn't, but if you're going to fuck me, would it kill you to maybe, I don't know, _woo_ me a little bit first?"

" _Woo_ you?" Erland repeated, brows shooting up, as if Elfhelm had just suggested Erland take him into the street and shoot him.

" _Woo_ me, yes." He tilted his head, leaned in to claim the softest and most gentle of kisses, barely brushing their lips together, trying to set the right mood. "Tell me how nice I look." A bit of a stretch; he looked like someone who made his money from porn. "Ask me how my day went. Offer to make me a drink." Actually, no, scratch that last part as well—no more alcohol today.

Erland huffed. "Do you always talk this much when someone's trying to have sex with you?"

Elfhelm cocked a brow.

Erland took a step back, raising surrendering hands. "Okay, _fine_." He blew out a put-upon sigh. "How was your day?" he said, in the politest of tones, forcing a tolerant smile. "Did you do anything nice this morning?"

Success; he would have to share this trick with the King. If it worked for the mauling brother, it might work for the biting sister as well. "As it happens, yes, I did. I met some friends at the Rohan Club for brunch."

"And who were the friends?"

"The King, and Mordulf Thelanor. We played a nice game of racquetball first." The nicest part of it being when it finished.

"You can't play racquetball with three people."

"You can the way we do it."

Erland's lips quirked. "You make it sound as if you had some kind of threesome going."

Threesomes were on everyone's minds this week, it seemed. What that said about the state of all their libidos, he wasn't quite sure. "Nothing as interesting as that, I'm afraid. We played in rotating pairs on five minute rounds."

"And who won?"

"Mordulf did. But only because he was the most sober." And despite what Mordulf had claimed, absolutely _not_ because he was the best player.

The quirk widened into a grin. "Oh, so, His Lordship was hungover this morning, then?"

"You have _no_ idea," Elfhelm confessed. The number of shots he'd downed last night, it was a wonder someone hadn't had to put him to bed. Or, maybe someone had, and he didn't remember. Just not Fastmer, he hoped.

"Yeah, I, uh, I had a pretty unpleasant start to the day myself," Erland ruefully admitted.

"Did His Lordship have too much to drink last night as well?"

"He certainly did." Heat flashing in his eyes, Erland moved in to kiss him again, groaning quietly into his mouth. Fingertips skimmed across Elfhelm's stomach, trailed along the waist of his jeans. Elfhelm's whole abdomen tensed, and parts of his body began to wake up. "But you'll be pleased to know the hangover's passed," Erland added. "He's firing on all thrusters now."

These bloody Marchers—no sense of subtlety or nuance at all. "We don't need all thrusters yet," Erland murmured.

"Oh, I think we do." Erland grabbed him by the arms, shoved him up against the door, hard enough to make him wince.

Face stricken, Erland pulled away. "Oh, Gods, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to push you that hard."

"It's fine, it actually wasn't that hard. My back's just a little bit sore."

"Did you hurt it?" Erland asked, scanning him up and down.

"You, um, you could say that, yes." How the fuck to explain what Mordulf had done? "Someone stepped on me."

"Someone _what_?"

"Mordulf Thelanor stepped on me. At the end of our racquetball game. I was lying face down on the floor. He walked over me, put his foot right in my back."

"Why the fuck did he do that?" Erland demanded. He was even more gorgeous when he was angry—his eyes almost seemed to glitter. There could be a lot of silly 'fights' and mind-blowing make-up sex on the cards…

"Because he'd beaten me, and he was trying to make a point." What that point had been, Elfhelm still wasn't sure.

Mouth set in a firm line, Erland made a twirling motion. 'Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around," Erland repeated, gently forcing Elfhelm to spin until he was facing the door. Delicate fingers peeled off his robe, leaving him totally naked from the waist up. For some strange reason, he felt completely exposed. "Where?" Erland said, throwing the robe away.

"Right between my shoulder blades. I doubt it's actually bruised. It's just a tiny bit tender."

"Here?" Erland said. Elfhelm jumped as Erland's lips touched his skin, right where Mordulf's foot had come down. "Is this where it hurts?"

"Uh huh," Elfhelm half-said, half-groaned. That was all his imploding brain could manage.

Erland kissed him again, a little bit lower. Then again, lower still. Slowly but surely, he trailed moist kisses down Elfhelm's spine. Every kiss was like a brand, leaving a fiery, tingling mark in its wake. He let out a quiet groan, feeling the tension building inside—his body parts were doing more than just 'responding' now…

Erland's mouth trailed up—a hot tongue now instead of moist kisses—past the tender spot on his back, all the way up to the nape of his neck. Teeth nipped at his right ear. "Is that enough wooing?" Erland asked in a low voice.

Elfhelm couldn't speak; he gave a quick nod.

Hands reached around Elfhelm's waist, carefully undoing his belt, snapping the button on his jeans, slowly pulling the zip. His whole brain went totally blank. Groaning, he laid his head against the cool wood of the door. He wondered how good the soundproofing was. Some poor bastard out in the street might be about to have the most shocking evening stroll of their life.

"Problem?" Erland asked. The hand in his jeans slipped into his briefs, wrapped around him and started to stroke.

"No problem, no," Elfhelm said, drowning in the pleasure spreading out from his groin. Except, as much as he liked the hand—Erland had such long, beautiful, elegant fingers—he wanted something else to engulf him instead. Something wetter and warmer.

"This feel okay?"

More than okay, it felt fucking amazing. "Uh huh."

Breathing sounded in his ear, soft and shallow, but ragged. "I could use something that would feel even nicer."

It was too much; he couldn't take this anymore. Elfhelm pushed away from the door, turning, grabbing Erland hard by the hair to pull their mouths together. Fuck subtlety all the way to fuck—he was going to let this man _ravage_ him into next week. And then ravage him just as hard in return.

The hand in his briefs went back to work, setting a faster pace. Groaning, Elfhelm fisted his fingers in Erland's tee, curled his head into the crook of his neck. Tension pooling in his stomach, he wrapped his arm around Erland's back to pull him in close. "For the love of Bema, don't stop, please," he whispered.

Except, a few moments later, Erland did stop.

But only to get to his knees…

"Still with me?" Erland asked from the other side of the bed.

Elfhelm managed a weary nod. "Barely." As long as being with Erland didn't involve walking anytime soon. Or sitting up, even.

"Hope that didn't inconvenience you too much."

"It was _shockingly_ unsubtle." But in a _stupendously_ enjoyable way. He couldn't remember when he'd last been so thoroughly seen to.

Erland shrugged. "I don't really do subtle."

"I noticed." And now, Elfhelm understood why the King had donned his sling again on Friday. He could use a supportive sling himself right now. For various parts of his body. Was this what the phrase 'fucked within an inch of your life' meant? And they didn't even use inches here…

"Although, I'm not sure anyone who sends someone Fever Dream orchids after one date should complain about other people being unsubtle," Erland said.

"I wasn't complaining. I was _observing_."

"Observing, right."

"And you told me you liked the flowers."

Erland shuffled across the bed until they were almost shoulder to shoulder. "I did," he said, rolling in to face the middle, pulling Elfhelm to do the same. "They were beautiful," he murmured, running his fingers through Elfhelm's hair. " _Ridiculously_ over the top, but beautiful."

Elfhelm's turn to shrug now. "What can I say? I'm a ridiculously over the top kind of person."

"I noticed."

It actually scared him a little, how hard he was falling after two dates. Too hard, his mother would say. And his father. Hell, probably Cenefer as well. They would all tell him to ease off the gas, take things a little more slowly. Not that Erland seemed to have any more sense on the matter, given his spur-of-the-moment visit tonight. The two of them were apparently as bad as each other.

"How's the back?" Erland said. "Where you got stood on?"

"It's fine." It still felt a little bit sore, but that might be due to more recent exertions.

"Who did you say it was who did that again?"

"Mordulf Thelanor."

"Related to the Countess, I assume?"

"Her son. He's a close friend of the King's." But not quite as close a friend as Elfhelm was. "They were roommates at the War College."

"Might have to have a quiet word with him," Erland said, scowling slightly. He trailed a finger along Elfhelm's jaw, leaned in to claim a quick kiss. "Warn him to stay away from my man."

Erland's man. Hearing that made Elfhelm's whole body tingle. "You might want to think about twice about that," he said, having protective feelings of his own. "Mordulf's ex-Army. _Serious_ ex-Army, in for almost ten years. Has all kinds of self defense training. You pick a fight with him, it's likely to end with him smearing you into the ground."

"Is that what he did to you?"

"To be honest, I have no idea what he did. All I know is, one second, I was on my feet and pulling his racquet, the next, I was lying face down on the floor quietly questioning my life choices."

"I'm not an expert by any means, but you guys don't play racquetball any way I'm familiar with."

Elfhelm grinned, thinking of some of the outrageous moves he and Eomer had pulled on each other over the years. "There isn't really a system to it. It's just creative violence with a small rubber ball."

"Do I even want to know why you play it like that?"

"It's mostly for the King. He spends all day every day surrounded by smiling, nodding people. I think he likes the honesty of it, that I'm not afraid to push him into a wall just because of who he is." A healthy thing, in Elfhelm's opinion. The day His Blessed Majesty thought he was too important to be pushed into a wall was a day they should all be worried.

"You keep him grounded, remind he's just a man as well as a King," Erland concluded.

"And I'm usually extremely good at it." Too good for Fastmer's comfort most days, based on the stink eye the guard always gave him when they came off the court. "I just had far too much to drink last night. Wasn't really up to playing this morning."

"You had a nice Solstice dinner, then?"

"I did, yes. Except for how much I drank. In hindsight, I should have stopped after dinner, never started on the shots."

Erland groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "Shots, Bema. I never want to look at a bottle of voda ever again."

"Dreadful stuff, isn't it?"

"Especially on top of mead."

Mead, ouch. Elfhelm had known not to go that far—all that sugar did _terrible_ things. "That as well, yes."

"So, am I allowed to ask, who else was at your fancy dinner?"

He couldn't see there was any harm. The dinner was over and done—no security issues to think about now. "Me, my parents, my sister and her man. The King and the Princess Royal, the Darkfalds, the Thelanors and Mordulf."

"Not too many, then."

"We always keep it small when we have the King over. My parents know, the more people we invite, the less likely it is he'll relax. Especially if we invite people he doesn't know well. He won't be comfortable letting his guard down."

"I assume that means he's comfortable with the Darkfalds and the Thelanors, then."

"Very. He knows he can trust them not to repeat what he says."

Erland sighed. "You won't tell me what scandalous gossip he shared with you, then."

"I won't, no. But apart from revealing that all of you have been invited to the Midsummer party"—something Erland already knew—"none of the really scandalous gossip came from the King, so you're not missing out."

"But there _was_ scandalous gossip," Erland concluded.

"Buckets." Elfhelm grinned, remembering Cenefer's juicy surprise. "For instance, did you know Erella Darkfald once dated your dad?"

To his surprise, Erland nodded. "I did, yes. But it was a long time ago, and not for long. Just a quick thing over a summer."

"She mentioned that, yes."

"I've met her since then, of course. Nice woman. Honourable. I've always admired her." Erland frowned. "But why the hell was she talking about the time she dated my dad?"

"Believe it or not, you were a rather popular topic of conversation."

"Who, me?" said Erland, holding his hand to his chest.

"Your family," Elfhelm explained.

"Why?"

Which parts of last night to share, and which to keep to himself? Not Cenefer's acid remark about Solwen having his baby—he didn't want Erland to hate his sister before they'd even met. And he couldn't share the whole Brendal discussion—the King had told him this morning to keep his mouth shut, and when a King commanded, an Elgoll obeyed. But a few topics should be safe to discuss. "There was some interesting analysis of your father's speech."

"Favourable, I assume."

How interesting. That Erland assumed the reception to his father's speech would automatically be good. Not a bad interesting. But interesting nonetheless. "Mostly, yes. The King didn't state his opinion, of course"—Erland smirked, hearing between the lines—"and I don't think Lady Thelanor will declare her undying love for your father anytime soon, but she could at least admit he did a great job."

"Don't know the Thelanors at all. Dad hasn't mentioned them much."

"We don't actually know them terribly well. I think mum invited them mostly to have Mordulf there for the King. My dad knows the Countess, obviously, but only from work."

"Is the Countess one of your dad's political allies?"

Elfhelm turned his hand back and forth. "Depends. They share some opinions, they both voted against the petition, but the Thelanors lean a little more to the right than us. I think, if the Conservative side of the Hall had a more likeable leader, the Countess would probably vote with their block. But she hates Camelor with a burning vengeance, so she votes with the Centrists and Loyalists instead."

"You don't consider your father to be a Conservative, then?"

"Not at all, no. I mean, he's positively authoritarian compared to yours"—that earned him the mildest of glares—"but he's more progressive than most people think. He's not opposed to change. He just wants changes to be made for the right reason, and in a civilized way."

Erland snorted. "If he wants civilized, he shouldn't sit in the Hall."

"He works with what he has. The way he sees it, the Hall is just an adult daycare, and it's his job to keep the bickering kiddies in line."

"I think I liked your other analogy better. When you said it was like Second School." Erland grinned. "That would make your dad the Head Boy."

And Camelor the class bully, and Strone the good-looking bloke who fingered girls behind the gym block at lunch. "What would that make your dad?"

"He'd be the kid who reads all the banned books and who always ends up in detention for arguing with the teacher."

Yes, that seemed about right.

"Can I ask what might be a sensitive question?" Erland said.

"You just fucked me. Of course you can."

Erland hesitated, then quietly asked, "Does your father dislike mine?"

How the hell to answer _that_? Carefully seemed best. But honestly as well. "He doesn't outright dislike him," Elfhelm said. "He respects your dad's commitment to what he believes in, really admires how well he can speak. I think he just wishes your dad wouldn't be so much of a loose canon. That he would learn to play better with the other children."

Erland blew out a sigh. "He's not the only one."

"It bothers you, then, how he sometimes behaves?"

"From time to time, yes. I mean, I understand what he's trying to do, and he usually has good intentions, but the way he approaches things, sometimes, it makes life difficult for us."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters, he got a death threat in the mail on Friday," Erland revealed.

"A _death threat_?"

"Sorry, that's maybe too strong a word. I should probably call it hate mail instead."

But even hate mail was a serious problem—not something anyone should just brush off. "Has he told the Police?"

Erland nodded. "It's all in hand, don't worry. And I doubt it's anything serious. But it was hand delivered to our house. A house all of us live in, not just my dad."

And there was another weird thing about the Hamelmark kids. "You need to fix that, you know."

"Fix what?"

"Living in your father's house."

Erland shrugged. "Just how it is in the March. Kids stay at home for longer. There's not the same pressure on them to move out."

"Yes, but there's longer, and there's taking the piss. You're thirty-two. It's a little bit silly."

Erland leaned in to claim another quick kiss. "I would say we can't all be as strong and independent as you, but I'm fairly sure you bought this place with daddy's money," he said.

"Shockingly, you'd be wrong. A rare occurrence for you Hamelmarks, I know." He patted Erland's cheek. "Don't worry, the terrible pain will pass in a minute."

"You saying you bought this place yourself?" Erland asked, tapping on the mattress. "A three bedroom, full service apartment in one of the fanciest parts of town?"

"I didn't say that. But I didn't buy it with my dad's money."

"How, then?"

Elfhelm felt his ears burn. "I bought it with an inheritance my grandmother left me."

Erland rolled his eyes. "Right, because that's _so_ much better."

He poked Erland hard in the stomach, making him grunt and jerk away. "It's not as if my dad's loaded and yours is just some regular jobbing guy. Pretty sure you Hamelmarks are plenty rich as well." How rich, he wasn't quite sure. He should have someone look into that for him. They wouldn't be anywhere near as rich as his dad, but then, who was?

"Careful, now," Erland warned. "Talking about how much money you have is vulgar, remember?"

"So was what you just did to me over the end of the bed." Not to mention what they'd done in the hall.

Erland snickered. "You think a Courtland's column has ever covered that? The posh and rude ways to fuck?"

Elfhelm couldn't think of a way that wasn't rude, but maybe that was just him. "I think the posh way involves singing the national anthem while you do it."

"Not the version of it I heard last night. Was nothing posh about those lyrics, trust me."

"Do tell."

Erland shook his head. "It included a line about the King having sex with his horse. Let's leave it at that."

"This _is_ Rohan, so that's not even much of an insult when you think about it. I'm sure some King has, at some point." Just not the current one, he assumed…

"Roddig put his money on Fengel."

"Roddig?"

"One of my other half-brothers."

And by 'other', he meant 'non-Landed', of course. It must be strange, to have so many siblings, but not have the same set of parents as any of them. To share a mother with some and a father with others. And to be one of four sons, two Landed, two not. As the only son of a man who'd always been married to the same wife, Elfhelm couldn't imagine how that must feel. And Bema, what the hell would it be like if and when their families met? His orderly group on one side of the room—his dad, his mum, his sister, himself, maybe even Brentan as well—and the chaos of the Hamelmark tribe on the other?

Thinking of family reminded him of something else he wanted to ask. "Can I ask a sensitive question?" Elfhelm started.

"Sure."

"Have you told your dad about us?"

"Of course," Erland said.

Alarm flared in Elfhelm's gut; he'd expected Elfhelm to be as secretive as his sister. "What, _already_?"

Erland nodded. "That's not a problem, is it?"

"Not at all, no." As long as Erland's dad didn't go chatting to his own dad about it at work tomorrow. Another reason for him to get his shit on the issue together. "I'm just a little surprised, that's all. That you would tell him so soon. I expected you to wait a bit longer."

"He was there when the orchids arrived, I didn't see any reason not to tell him. And I don't really like hiding things from people."

No, that was his sister's job—she was apparently hiding things from people on various levels. What he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall when those conversations went down tomorrow. "And is he okay with it? With us, I mean?"

"Course he is." Erland frowned. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"It's just, I guess I expected him to take the news badly. Because of who my dad is."

"He doesn't dislike your dad, you know. Doesn't agree with him on a lot of things, but I know he respects him. And even if he didn't, he wouldn't use that as a reason to object to us dating." The frown deepened. "Why? Is that something you're worried about?"

"A little bit, yes."

"I guess that means you haven't told your folks yet."

"Not yet, no."

"I told my dad not to say anything to yours when he sees him this week. So, you don't have to worry about him spilling the beans."

Relief flooded through him—he had more time to have the chat than he'd thought. "Thank you. That's good to know."

"You think they'll take the news badly?" Erland smirked. "Pass out, have to be treated with some smelling salts and a large glass of gin?"

Given he'd had to remind his mother of her 'no badmouthing the Hamelmarks' promise, and how many acid comments Cennie had made, there was no way his thing with Erland wasn't going to cause at least a few ripples. "It's not about you personally. It's about your family as a whole. It _complicates_ things."

"Why?"

Bema, did Erland really not know how this worked, or was he being deliberately obtuse? "Because if we rank the Landed Houses by how much trouble they've caused, yours is right at the top, and mine is right at the bottom."

Erland huffed. "Not my fault none of you Elgolls know how to start a riot."

"We're a Landed House. Why on _earth_ would we ever want to start a riot?"

"Because sometimes, a riot is the best way to make your voice heard."

"Um, hello, so is _talking_ to people?"

"Only when people are willing to listen."

"You think people aren't willing to listen to you?"

"They sure as shit weren't willing to listen to my great-grandfather when he tried to tell them Thengel was breaking the law," Erland said, getting hot under the collar now. Or, whatever one got hot under when one was totally naked. "He didn't ride that horse into the Golden Hall because he was bored. He was trying to make an important point."

"Well, he certainly managed that."

"You know what he also managed?"

"To almost get himself hanged for treason?"

Erland grinned. "That, yes. But he also managed to make Thengel back down, give up on what he'd been trying to do." He poked Elfhelm hard in the stomach, making him pull away. "Something all the talking in the world sometimes doesn't achieve."

"I'm willing to admit, there may be a point when talking isn't effective, and you need a more hands-on solution."

"Thank you."

"But you Hamelmarks move to the hands-on stage too quickly."

"You weren't saying that an hour ago," Erland said, reaching out to stroke Elfhelm's stomach again. "You were plenty ready for my hands-on stage then."

"Don't be crude."

"I could be wrong, but I'm sure I remember you asking me to—"

"Okay, _stop_ ," Elfhelm thundered. "It might not be vulgar to talk about money, but it's _definitely_ vulgar to repeat something someone said during sex."

"But you said it so well," Erland told him with a lascivious grin. "Got me as hard as a rock just listening to you."

Cheeks burning, Elfhelm pointed to the door. "One more indelicate word out of you, and you'll be out on the street for the rest of the night."

Erland pulled him close to kiss him. "I'll shut up, then. Be a gentleman instead."

That would be a first. "Yes, do, please."

"I'll need to remember to be a gentleman if and when I meet your mother as well. So she doesn't hate me on sight."

"It won't be a problem," Elfhelm said, trying to persuade himself as much as Erland. The truth was, he had no idea how his mum would react. "Your family's a bit odd, but at least you’re the son of an earl."

"Would she disapprove of me if I wasn't?"

"No, but it makes things easier that you are. She's not a snob, please don't ever think that, but she has… comfort levels, I think would be the best way to put it. She's always lived a privileged life. Her father was an earl. Her mother was an earl's daughter. Her brother is an earl. Her sister married an earl. Her husband is an earl. She doesn't have a lot of experience of other ways of living."

Erland showed him a teasing grin. "Will she care that I don't have quartered arms?"

"No at all. Very few people do."

"You do."

"Double quartered, actually," Erland proudly announced. "All four of my grandparents were Landed." Plus all eight of his great-grandparents—something even His Blessed Majesty couldn't claim.

"Well, aren't we special?"

"I'm an Elgoll. Of course I am."

Rolling his eyes, Erland said, "So the reason you haven't told your parents _isn't_ because you're embarrassed to."

"Not at all. It's just a matter of opportunity and timing. I saw them both yesterday, of course, but they had other things on their mind. It didn't seem like the appropriate time to share my news." Although, it would certainly have added another level of spice to the after-dinner conversation.

"And, um, what we're doing here"—Erland waved between them—"is it _actually_ dating?"

"Of course it is."

"You sound awfully sure."

"You think I would have sent you orchids if I wasn't?"

"So, we're not just hooking up for sex?"

" _I'm_ not. I can't speak for you."

A smile spread on Erland's face—soft, nervous, almost shy. Somewhat incongruous, given his earlier 'man on a mission' mood. "I, uh, I think I'd quite like us to be dating as well," he said.

Elfhelm's stomach fluttered. "Good." He leaned in to claim a lingering kiss, basking in Erland's taste and body heat and smell. "And just so you know, I _am_ going to thoroughly spoil you," he added when he pulled away. "I'm not the shy, undemonstrative type." As the last hour had probably proved.

"I think I can live with that. Just space the expensive orchids out a bit, please?" Erland pleaded.

"You told me you liked them."

"I did. But so did my stepmother. And now she's bitching at my dad because he doesn't buy them for her. You buy them too many times, he'll start to hate you."

"Not my fault your father's an inadequate husband." In his family, not buying your wife enough flowers was almost grounds for divorce.

"Oh, he's plenty adequate, trust me." Erland rubbed his face. "They've probably had more sex in the last year than I have."

So, His Lordship was meeting his wife's needs in other ways, then. Grinning, Elfhelm asked, "That bother you?"

"Course not. They can have as much as sex as they want. I just don't want to hear it when it happens."

"What you get for still living at home."

"You ever heard your parents fucking?"

Thankfully, he'd been spared that pain. "Never. Not even when I still lived at home." But 'home' was a mansion, not a house, with well-spaced rooms and lots of thick walls.

"Have they ever caught _you_ doing the deed?"

"Just once, about ten years ago." With a lovely young man he'd met while shopping for shoes. "But things hadn't progressed very far, so we still had most of our clothes on." He snickered, remembering who in the house _had_ been caught doing the full deed. "Cennie's fucked up worse than I have. A few years ago, when her boyfriend came to dinner, dad caught them in the garage, having sex on one of the cars."

"Bet he loved that."

"It was his favourite car, and they put a dent in the bonnet, so not really, no."

"I assume this wasn't the boyfriend that was at dinner last night?"

"Bema, no," Elfhelm scoffed. "Brentan is a lovely but somewhat unimaginative young man. He would never do anything as risqué as that."

"You don't like him?"

"I like him just fine. I mean, he wants to marry my sister, which makes me question his sanity and judgement, but other than that, he's a lovely young chap." And quite the looker as well, not that he would ever say that out loud. "The perfect man to father the next Elgoll heir." Elfhelm waved at Erland. "What about you? You ever get caught?"

Erland shook his head. "But I've always been really careful that way. And I almost never bring people home."

"Yes, you just turn up unannounced at their place instead," said Elfhelm drily.

"Exactly."

"Can I ask another difficult question?"

Erland sighed. "If you must."

"The not bringing people home thing." Elfhelm paused, choosing his next words with care. "Was that ever because you were worried your family wouldn't approve?"

"Of what?"

"Of the fact you like guys."

"Why on earth would they disapprove?"

Elfhelm shrugged. "Some people still do." Like his great-aunt Henild for one. Stupid, vicious old woman—the sooner the old cow died, the better. "And you're the eldest son of an earl. Liking guys means you won't marry and have children. That throws a small spanner in the inheritance process."

"No more so than if I married a woman and then discovered we couldn't have kids."

"True."

"I think there was a _tiny_ bit of concern when I told them, about what it might mean for the earldom, but it wasn't about me in particular. Just a general concern, because there's so few of us left."

"Have the Hamelmarks not been good at breeding then?" Something the Elgolls had always excelled at.

"Not really, no. My dad's an only child. My grandmother had a younger sister, and she has a son, but he doesn't have kids. My grandfather had an older sister, but she died as a child. You have to go back to my great-grandfather before there's another healthy branch of the family tree." Erland scrunched his face. "And I'm pretty sure it ends in Dunland."

And better to let the earldom go extinct than to give it to the Dunnish. "So, it's really just you, Solwen and your brother?"

Erland nodded. "One of us has to provide an heir, and it's probably not going to be me."

"Might not be your sister either."

"Meaning?"

"Let's say her and the King work out, she marries him, becomes his Queen. Her eldest kid would eventually inherit the Crown. If he or she eventually inherits your family title as well—"

"—The earldom would merge with the Crown," Erland concluded.

"And the House of Hamelmark would effectively cease to exist." An outcome a few members of the Hall would welcome.

"Not keeping me up at night. Astalor's straight, and there's no guarantee Solwen's thing with the King will work out. For all we know, they could break up next week."

"I wouldn't bet any money on it."

"Why's that?"

"Because, between you and me, His Majesty is _awfully_ keen." And that was as much as he was saying.

"They've only had three dates. How keen can he be?"

"It's been rather a long time since any of the King's lady friends have made it to a third date." Except for Seorsa Camelor, but that was more of a 'friends with benefits' thing. "Actually, even to a second, now I think about it."

"Really?"

"He's quite risk averse, I think would be the best way to put it. And easily spooked."

"Meaning?"

"He's very good at sniffing out the title hunters." As most people in their position were. "Got the best nose for it I've _ever_ seen. He can smell a fake from the other side of the city."

"Solly's not a fake," said Erland, indignant at the suggestion. "She doesn't care about his title. I think she actually finds it annoying."

"I know she does. And I'm quite sure the King knows as well. Which is probably why they're having their fourth date tomorrow."

"The King," Erland repeated, smiling slightly.

"What?"

"He's been your best friend for what, twenty years?"

"Twenty-two."

"Twenty-two years, and you still call him by his rank. Why don't you use his name instead?"

"It wouldn't be right."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Of course not."

"So he would let you call him Eomer?"

Every cell in Elfhelm's body winced. "Bema, don't do that, please."

"Do what?"

"Say his name. It's not right."

"He's just the King. He's not some demon from the netherworld who apparates behind you when you say his name five times in a row."

"That's not the point," Elfhelm said. "There's protocol to follow." But what would a Hamelmark know about that?

Erland sat up. "Eomer, Eomer, Eomer, Eomer, Eomer," he hollered at the ceiling. "See?" he said, scanning the room. "He didn't just appear to have me beheaded for insulting the dignity of the Crown. It's fine."

Raising a warning finger, Elfhelm pushed up to a matching sitting position. "Okay, do not _ever_ do that in front of my mother."

"What would she do if I did?" Erland asked, in a tone entirely too mischievous for Elfhelm's liking.

"Once she had finished crying, she would probably throw you out of the house."

Erland's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Or, she would have one of the footmen throw you out, but the end result would be the same."

"You have _footmen_?"

What an odd question. "At the house, yes. Of course we do. Why? Do you not?"

"Um, _no_?"

"Who answers your door when people come to visit then?"

"Like, _we_ do?"

If he was wearing pearls, Elfhelm would actually clutch them. What kind of barbarians were these Hamelmark people? "Are you seriously telling me you don't have any staff at your house in the city?"

"We have a housekeeper. Hedwin. She deals with the groceries and the cleaning. She also helps us with the food whenever we hold a dinner. But that's about it."

"What about the garden? And the cars? And the laundry? And the maintenance work? Who takes care of all that?"

A smile spread on Erland's face. "My Gods. It's _actually_ true."

"What's true?" Elfhelm demanded, alarmed.

"What everyone says about the Elgolls."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You really _are_ all born with a mithril spoon up your arse." Erland said, laughing lightly.

"I'm glad you think we're so amusing."

"Sorry, I'm not laughing _at_ you, I promise. I just…" Erland cradled Elfhelm's face, pulled him in for a gentle kiss. "Don't _ever_ change, okay? Please just always be you."

"What's wrong with me?" Elfhelm was starting to feel a little wronged now; he wasn't sure he liked where this conversation was going.

"Absolutely nothing." Erland pulled him down to the bed, back to their facing in position. A hand disappeared under the cover, trailing down Elfhelm's chest, wandering further south. The stroking resumed. "Especially not this part. This part is _perfect_ ," Erland murmured.

"I do consider it to be my best feature," Elfhelm said. His brain started to shut down again. That hand felt so bloody good…

Erland shook his head. "I think your eyes are actually your best feature."

"Okay, second best then."

"Fair enough." Erland claimed another kiss. "And, uh, how would you feel about putting your second-best feature to use?"

"I think that could be arranged." His turn to take the reins now.

"Please?" Erland politely said.


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer has some fun at Brendal's expense. The truth about the guest list comes out, with explosive results. Duncan has a run-in with his least favourite earl.
> 
> Warning for one use of the c-word.

**Monday June 22, 2020**

The garage was still. Almost disconcertingly so—he was so used to seeing it full of movement and noise.

It had only just gone eight o'clock, so barely anyone was here; most of the staff wouldn't start for another half hour. But Brendal was an early bird. And so was Brendal's right-hand man, who'd been rummaging through a carton of tools, but was now standing frozen still, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, staring at Eomer as if he was The Great Hunter himself.

The man dipped his head. "Your Majesty, good morning," he managed to say.

What the hell was the guy's name again? He'd met him before; he should remember. Wulf, yes, that was it. "Good morning, Wulf," Eomer said, showing a reassuring smile. "How are you today?"

Wulf beamed and puffed with pride, delighted the King remembered his name. "I'm very well, sir, thank you. And you?"

"I'm excellent, thank you." He leaned out to look down the bays. "I was actually hoping to speak with Brendal. Is he here yet?"

"He is, sir, yes." Wulf gestured to a door in the far wall. "He's just in his office, sir. Dealing with some paperwork, I think."

"Thank you, Wulf." Eomer made for the office, Fastmer trailing the usual few steps behind.

He raised his hand to knock on the door. A grin threatened to erupt; he quickly dropped the hand to his side. He needed to get his shit together. For this to work, he had to look and sound like a man in a frosty, furious rage. If he showed even the tiniest hint of a smile, the game would be over before it began.

"Everything alright, sir?" Fastmer murmured behind him.

"Everything's fine," Eomer said. "I'm just trying to find the right mood."

Eomer could almost hear Fastmer's puzzled frown. "Of course, sir."

Eomer took a breath, pulled his shoulders back and schooled his face into what he thought would look like a regally pissed-off expression. He had to feel this character from the bones out. He had to think and act like a man who'd just discovered his girlfriend was cheating on him behind his back with one of his own employees.

He rapped a knuckle on the door.

"Come in," Brendal called out.

Eomer pushed the door in, trying to project wounded wrath with every movement he made.

Startled, Brendal shot to his feet, smiling, dipping his head. "Your Majesty, good morning, sir."

"Is it?" Eomer said.

Brendal's smile faltered a little. "Sir?"

"Is it actually a good morning?"

"Not sure I follow."

Eomer turned to Fastmer. "I need to speak with Brendal in private," he said in a low voice. "Would you excuse us?"

Fastmer nodded, pulled the door shut, took up his usual sentry position outside.

Eyes flitting to the door, Brendal swallowed. "Is there a problem, sir?"

"You could say that, yes." Shaking his head, Eomer let out the longest of sighs. "I'm disappointed, you know. That you actually thought you could get away with it."

"Sir?"

"You really thought I wouldn't find out."

"Sir, if this is about that bottle of wine, I can explain," Brendal said.

"It's not about the wine. I don't care about that." Eomer crossed his arms and gave Brendal a narrow-eyed glare. "You know fine well what I mean. Don't play games with me."

"Your Majesty, I honestly have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"Really?" Eomer said, voice dripping with scorn. A snort threatened again, he turned away, raising a hand to cover his mouth, forcing his insubordinate facial muscles back into place. Was he being just a little _too_ naughty here? Probably. But he was going to finish with something nice.

"Your Majesty, if I've done something wrong, you need to tell me," Brendal pleaded. "Because apart from that wine, I can't think what the hell else it would be."

"My own bike mechanic, of all people," Eomer said, turning back, expression glum and solemn now. In a mournful, almost wistful voice, he added, "And to think, I almost considered you a friend."

Brendal's hands came up. "Okay, I'm… I don't know _what_ the hell this is."

"What this is," Eomer said, "is me finding out you've betrayed me in the most personal way."

" _How_?" Brendal said, brows furrowing in outrage now. Good man. He wasn't just going to roll over and take the verbal beating without throwing a few punches himself. "What the _fuck_ did I do?"

"You made a move on my girlfriend," Eomer barked.

Brendal had no response now. For a few moments, he just stood there, slack-jawed, blinking. " _What_?" he finally exclaimed.

"You've been carrying on with Solwen," Eomer said. "While I've been dating her, you've been seeing her behind my back."

"Who the _fuck_ told you that?" Brendal barked, all pretense at courtly manners gone now.

It was almost painful, the effort Eomer had to make not to grin. This was the best acting he'd _ever_ done in his life. Including that time in Second School when he'd lied to a suspicious teacher about who'd poured a cup of juice into an asshole bully's bag. "Lady Darkfald," he said. "At the Solstice dinner I went to on Saturday night."

"Lady… okay, _who_?"

"The Countess of Darkfald. The Leader of the Hall of Lords." Eomer's smile was glacially cold. "Who also happens to be a _very_ close friend of Solwen's father." Not entirely true, but Brendal didn't need to know that. "Close enough, the Earl felt comfortable telling her who his daughter is dating." He moved away, throwing up his arms in disgust. "Imagine my surprise, when the Countess decided to share that lovely snippet with me over dinner. Imagine how _I_ felt"—he tapped his thumb to his chest—"when I had to sit there and listen to someone tell me my own girlfriend is _having sex_ with my bike mechanic."

Brendal swallowed so hard Eomer actually heard the sound. "It's not like that. I can explain."

"Really?"

In a jumbled, nervous, panicking rush, the full story came tumbling out. "It was to help Solwen. It's because her dad's so nosy, you see. She's been trying to keep secrets from him. Who she's really dating. But he wouldn't give up on trying to find out, and he'd figured out she was dating someone who worked at the Palace, and he knew I worked here and—"

One side of Eomer's mouth twitched. He bit his lip so hard he almost drew blood.

Brendal paused, frowning at him. "Sir?"

"Go on," said Eomer sternly.

Brendal's tone was wary now, his gaze just a _tiny_ bit suspicious. "So she asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend for her. But just with—"

A heavy snort erupted.

The change that came over Brendal's face—it was like nothing Eomer had ever seen before. "You fucking _know_ ," the mechanic said through gritted teeth.

"Know what?" Eomer said. But trying to keep his face straight was like trying to hold back the tide.

"You know what's going on," Brendal hollered.

The dam broke, the shoulder-heaving snicker came tumbling out. "Well, of _course_ I know," Eomer said, grinning so hard his cheek muscles started to hurt. "I mean, not before the dinner party, I didn't, so when the Countess told me, that part _was_ actually a surprise."

"But you knew I was just helping Solwen hide things from her dad."

"I figured that part out pretty quickly, yes."

Brendals hands formed into fists. Face scrunching, he looked around, scanning the walls and the floor, searching for something fragile to punch.

"You okay, there?" Eomer asked.

"No, sir, I'm bloody well not okay!" Brendal shot back. "I thought you were about to have me arrested for treason!"

"Why the hell would I ever do that?"

"I don't bloody know! That was the whole bloody problem!"

Through the window of the door, Fastmer's head turned, alerted by the raised voices.

"It was very naughty of me, I know," Eomer said, raising conciliatory hands. "But I couldn't resist. I don't get to tease people very often. It was too good an opportunity to pass up."

"Naughty's not the word I would use," Brendal said.

"What word would you use then?"

"Nothing that's fit to say to a King," Brendal snapped. "And nothing that wouldn't get me fired on the spot for gross misconduct."

An opportunity presented itself. To balance the scales, let Brendal give as good as he got. "Okay, how about, to make up for this, I give you a pass? You can say whatever you want to me"—Eomer raised a finger—"just once, and I won't hold it against you."

"Really?"

Eomer nodded. "I just did something mean to you, seems only fair I let you do something mean to me in return."

"So, I can say _anything_ I want, and you won't fire me?"

"I give you my word." Eomer laid his hand over his heart.

Brendal narrowed his eyes. "Can I have it in writing? That you won't fire me, I mean?"

"I don't think we need to go that far."

"Of course you bloody don't! You're not the one who'll get fired!"

A compromise of a sorts came to mind. Eomer pointed at the door. "How about, I repeat my offer, but with Fastmer as my witness? You know what a stickler for keeping promises he is. He can be your backup."

Brendal gave a wary nod. "Aye, that might work."

"Fastmer!" Eomer called out. "We need you!"

The door opened, Fastmer stepped in. "Sir?" he said, looking from Eomer to Brendal and back.

"I need your help with something," Eomer explained. He gestured to Brendal. "For reasons I won't go into right now, I just did something really mean to Brendal. To make amends for that, I'm now going to allow him to express his opinion of me in whatever way he sees fit. He's obviously reluctant to exercise that offer without a guarantee there won't be any repercussions." He patted Fastmer on the shoulder, provoking one of the guard's 'did you just touch me' frowns. "You're my guarantee. You're here to formally witness my offer." He turned to Brendal, rubbed his hands together, held them out to make a 'come at me' gesture. "Go on, then. Say whatever you want. I give you my word, whatever you do, I will not take _any_ kind of action against you." He looked to Fastmer. "Got it?"

Fastmer heaved a sigh. "Got it, sir, yes."

"Does he have to be here when I say it?" Brendal said, pointing at Fastmer. "Because I'd feel better if he wasn't."

A valid point…

"He doesn't, no," Fastmer said before Eomer could answer, shooting each of them a glare. "I've heard the terms. That's enough. If you need me again, I'll be outside." He nodded curtly and stepped back out, pulling the door behind him.

"You two-faced, lying, sneaky, devious, shifty, dishonest, scheming _cunt_ ," Brendal spat.

Eomer stepped back, blinking. The sheer _vehemence_ in Brendal's voice. "Okay, wow. The c-word. _Really_?"

"Really," Brendal thundered. He raised a warning finger. "You said I could call you anything. And I'm from the March. You're lucky I kept it that clean."

He couldn't imagine what could possibly be less clean than the c-word. And it wasn't as if he'd never heard it before. He just hadn't heard it that much. Not since he'd become King, at least. Apart from Eowyn, and occasionally Colwenna, nobody _ever_ swore in his presence. "Feel better now?"

Brendal nodded. "A little bit, yes."

And now, for the nice part. "I could do something that would make you feel even better."

"Oh, please don't," Brendal pleaded. "With all due respect, sir, could you maybe just go away and leave me to get on with my work?"

"I could do that, yes." Eomer pulled the letter with the cheque out of his shirt pocket. "But then I wouldn't know what to do with this."

"What's that?" Brendal asked, suspicious.

Eomer unfolded the letter, pretended to read it, even though he knew exactly what it said. "You're apparently due a pay rise." He wagged the cheque. " _And_ a bonus. Let's see now." He scanned the memo line on the cheque—the line he'd written himself. "Says here, for confidential services to the Crown."

Brendal glared at him again. "You're an _absolutely_ terrible person."

"Careful, now," Eomer warned. "You only get to tell me off once. No using the c-word again."

"I'm just thinking it at you instead."

Eomer held out the cheque and the letter. "Thank you," he quietly said. "After the last couple of months, I feel like you deserve it."

Brendal took the paperwork, scanned the letter, read the cheque. His brows shot up. "That's… a _very_ generous number, sir."

"It is. _And_ you'll notice I wrote and signed the cheque out myself." Against his personal funds, not against the household funds provided by the Sovereign Grant. "So, it might actually be worth more if you auctioned it on RidderMarket."

Brendal snorted. "No chance of that."

"I was going to deduct the cost of the wine you took—"

"—Was _given_ ," Brendal corrected.

Grinning, Eomer continued, "Then I realized, I have no idea how much the stuff costs, and I couldn't be bothered to go find out."

Brendal let out a sigh. "You really don't deserve her, you know."

"Who?"

"Solwen. She's _wasted_ on you."

He hoped Brendal was saying that in a protective way, and not because he actually was carrying some kind of torch for her. "Now, now, Brendal. Keep your facts straight. Surely you mean she's wasted on _us_?"

Still holding the paperwork, Brendal pressed his palms to his eyes. "You are literally the _worst_ ," he whimpered.

"I won't tell her you forgot about your relationship with her if you won't."

"You're never going to let me forget this, are you?"

"Brendal, when the time comes, this is going in my official memoirs." Assuming Brendal didn't murder him in his sleep before they were written. "I already have a chapter title. I'm going to call it _The King, His Girl, Their Bike and Her Lover_." Like that weird, arthouse movie he'd watched a few years ago, just without the cannibalism.

" _Terrible_ person," Brendal muttered. "Should resign, go work for the Chancellor of Mordor instead. He can't possibly be this much of an arsehole."

Eomer shook his head. "You wouldn't like him. Man's got no sense of humour at all. At least I only threaten to have people killed. Pale Ale _actually_ does it."

"You do realize, I was just trying to help?" Brendal said. "And that Solwen didn't mean any harm by it? She wasn't trying to deceive you. She was just trying to keep her dad off her back."

Eomer nodded. "I'm aware of that, yes."

"You're not angry with her then?"

"A _tiny_ bit," Eomer said, pinching his thumb and finger together, "but only because she didn't just come out and tell me first."

"Are you going to be an ars—do this to her as well?"

Eomer turned his hand back and forth. "Not sure. Depends on what kind of mood I'm in. Plus, I might not be able to get away with it to the same degree."

"You won't be able to get away with it at all," Brendal retorted. "She won't take your shite. She'll just tell you to get stuffed."

"I don't think she'll be that polite."

"Aye, well. I was trying not to use the c-word again."

"It's a _horrible_ word."

"Yes, that's the whole point, sir," Brendal said.

"You _do_ realize, we need you to play ball on the cover story for just a little bit longer?"

Another sigh. "Aye."

"Not _too_ long, though. Just through our trip to the March, I think, so we can keep her dad at bay."

"That's what she said."

"I'll talk to her about it tonight." Whether before or after the ravaging remained to be seen. "I know _why_ she did it, but her plan's already coming apart. It's about to hit the gossip stage, so it won't stand up to scrutiny for as long as she hoped. We might need to prepare for the two of you to have a strategic breakup."

Brendal's eyes went wide. "Okay, but what do you mean, the _gossip_ stage?"

"The Countess of Darkfald knows. And everyone else who was at the dinner party." Bema only knew what havoc Cenefer alone had already wreaked. "People talk. Word gets around."

"But I'm a _nobody_. Why the hell would they even care?"

How to word this. "It's _because_ you're a nobody, Brendal," Eomer said as kindly as he could. "But Solwen is an earl's daughter."

Brendal nodded, understanding. "So, the stuck-up snobs are all over what shocking taste in men she has?"

"Something like that, yes."

"I mean, they're not wrong. She _does_ have shocking taste in men. Positively dreadful."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Said no Landed person, ever," Brendal muttered.

"Oh, and speaking of Landed people, you were at the Hamelmarks for dinner on Saturday, right? That's why you needed the wine?"

"That's right."

"And how was it? The dinner, I mean. Not the wine." Which they probably hadn't even opened.

"It was… interesting."

"In what way?"

"Have you ever met Lady Solwen's family, sir?"

"Once, ten years ago, when her father was installed as earl. But very briefly, and it was a formal occasion."

"Was that when she—"

"—Punched Thelden Camelor?" Eomer nodded. "But let's leave that in the past," he said, thinking about what Mordulf had said.

"Okay, well, they're"—Brendal heaved another sigh—"I'm not sure what word I should use, sir. _Challenging_ , would be the politest way to put, I think."

"Challenging?"

"Challenging, aye. There's quite a few of them, what with the grandfather and the other half-brothers, and they have a rather… a rather _lively_ way of interacting with each other."

Lively, hmm, that sounded a little alarming. "Meaning?"

"Hard to describe, sir." Brendal showed the politest of smiles. "And I wouldn't want to influence your opinion of them. Best if you just find out for yourself."

"How considerate of you," said Eomer drily.

A quiet rap on the door, Fastmer stuck his head in. "Time reminder, sir. You wanted to know when it was eight-fifteen."

"Thank you, Fastmer, I'll be right there." Smiling, he turned back to Brendal, holding out a hand. "We all good?"

To his relief, Brendal took the hand to shake it firmly, showing a smile of his own. "But good enough, yes."

"Enjoy the rest of your day." Eomer waved at the paperwork. "And enjoy the bonus. Spend it on something nice."

"I certainly will."

At the door, Eomer turned back. "Oh, and speaking of spending money on something nice, how's the 'foot coming along? Will she be ready for next week?"

"Repair work's almost done. I just need to fit a few final parts this week. So, yes, she will."

Heart leaping, Eomer asked, "I can take her to the March after all?"

Brendal nodded. "You certainly can. And I've included her in the transport plan. It's all in hand."

"Good man. Thank you." He checked the time; he really needed to go. "But I need to run. Have to see a man about a party guest list. Enjoy your day. I'll talk to you soon."

Brendal collapsed into his seat, frazzled, drained, utterly spent. He'd only been at work for ten minutes, and he already wanted to go home and have a lie down.

That no good, devious, royal _fuck_. What kind of utter _arsehole_ did that to people?

He jumped as the door flew open—the King again, still with that stupid grin on his face. "One other thing," His Majesty said.

Oh, Gods, what now? "Yes, sir?"

"No texting Solwen to warn her, okay?"

Brendal opened his mouth to object, quickly closed it again. He just didn't have the strength. And Solwen would know how to hold her own ground. She would do a much better job of it than he had, roughly tell the King to get fucked and go shite himself. Or other words to that effect. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"Good. Carry on."

He sat down again, pulled his untouched cup of tea towards him, stared at it for a few seconds.

It wasn't even nine o'clock yet. He really shouldn't.

But shouldn't wasn't the same as couldn't.

He opened the bottom drawer on his desk, took out a small silver flask, poured some of the contents into his tea. Not a full measure—just a dollop to calm his poor, shredded nerves. A wee splod, as his mother would call it.

He picked up the letter to read it again, examined the accompanying cheque. He didn't appreciate the circumstances under which he'd received it, but it was a bloody _lovely_ amount.

He could buy those new Gondorian riding boots after all…

As the elevator started to move, Eomer realized he would have to explain the 'situation' to his head guard.

Turning to Fastmer, he said, "There's something I need to tell you. About my relationship with Lady Solwen."

"Is this where you tell me Lady Solwen has fooled her father into thinking she's dating Brendal?" Fastmer said in the flattest, least interested voice Eomer had ever heard.

So much for it being a surprise. "Someone told you," Eomer stated.

"No, sir. They did not."

"Then, how did you know?"

"Lord Elfhelm was correct, sir."

That would be a first. "About what?"

"I _do_ have excellent hearing," Fastmer said. "And His Lordship doesn't understand that a whisper is supposed to be quiet."

So, he'd known since Saturday evening, then. "You disapprove of what's going on?"

"Not my job to disapprove of other people's behaviour, sir." Quickly Fastmer added, "Unless they're trying to kill you, of course."

"Of course."

"But if you don't mind me saying, I think you're all insane."

"Thank you, Fastmer. As always, you know _exactly_ the right thing to say."

Fastmer dipped his head. "You're very welcome, sir."

"Oh, and while it's just the two of us, can I ask, has there been any progress on the, um, the _inside man_ thing?"

"We're still investigating," Fastmer said. "We've had some leads, but no definitive evidence yet. I'm meeting with Algrin later."

"Have you spoken to Fenbrand?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, he's in the clear?" Given what position Fenbrand held, what kind of access to information he had, Eomer couldn't imagine Fastmer wouldn't have come to tell him if he wasn't.

"So far, yes."

So far. Hmm.

The elevator ground to a halt. "Let's go talk to him, then."

He was on a hot streak today; he managed to scare the shit out of Connet as well. When he strode through the door, the poor man jumped to attention so quickly, Eomer was sure he must have dislocated something.

Connet gave a quick bow. "Your Majesty, good morning. How are you today?"

He should have left it to Eomer to tackle the social niceties first. Not that Eomer minded. Fenbrand would, but Fenbrand wasn't here. "I'm very well, Connet, thank you," he said. "And you? Did you have a pleasant Solstice weekend?" Hopefully not as alcohol-soaked as his own.

"I did, sir, yes." Connet smiled. "I made dinner for myself and a friend."

So, he was obscenely good-looking, and he could cook as well? It was a wonder some woman hadn't snatched him up yet. Or some man. "Good for you," said Eomer. But he didn't have time to stand around chatting. He gestured at Fenbrand's office. "Is he in yet?"

Connet nodded. "Yes, sir, he is. Turned up at eight on the dot."

"Great." As Eomer made for the door, Connet came rushing up behind. "But he's not here right now, sir. He's gone down to the canteen to get his coffee."

Mother of Bema. How many times would he have to make this bloody visit before someone could answer his question for him?

"He shouldn't be too long, sir. Maybe ten minutes?" Connet offered.

Ten minutes he didn't want to wait. Eomer strode to Fenbrand's door and pushed it open. He scanned around; to his relief, Fenbrand had already unlocked his cupboard and desk. Turning to Connet, he said, "Where would Fenbrand keep a file about plans for the oath anniversary banquet?"

"I, um, I'm not entirely sure, sir. It might be best to ask him?" Connet suggested. He moved further into Fenbrand's office, as if trying to protect it from an intruder.

"Connet, I understand you don't want me poking in Fenbrand's things, because he's your boss, but please remember, Fenbrand works for me. And I really need to find that list." Eomer showed his firmest smile, making it clear he wasn't taking 'no' for an answer. "I'd appreciate some assistance."

Connet nodded. "Of course, sir. My apologies." He pointed to a bureau in the corner. "The top drawer, sir. I believe that's where he keeps his event planning notes. Everything is ordered by date."

"Thank you." Eomer went to the drawer to pull it open, started flicking through the folders. Talk about organization being a work of art? "Are all Fenbrand's files like this?" he asked as he rummaged.

"Like what, sir?"

"So well arranged." He even had _colour coding_ , for Bema's sake…

"He's very efficient that way, sir, yes."

No fucking shit. He found the folder for his birthday party, a few weeks past. He skipped forward a few centimetres—the Midsummer party now. Keep going, keep going. He passed a few more events, and finally, he found the right file. OATH ANNIVERSARY BANQUET, the printed sticker on the tab read.

He pulled the folder out to flip it open. Reams and reams of paper on all manner of things. Seating plans, receiving lines, accommodations, invitations, security measures, catering, wine selections, car hires, jewellery hires, staff shifts, overtime arrangements, police escorts. Where the fuck was the list of guests? He kept flicking, the damn thing must be in here somewhere.

The next document was a list of names. PROVISIONAL GUEST LIST the title bar said, and the handwritten date was only two weeks in the past. He dragged a thumb down the first page, seeing nothing that gave him any cause for concern. Most of the names were Rohanese—royals, earls, prominent politicians. He flicked to the next page, dragged his finger down again. Into the Gondorian princes now—Pelargir, Erech (and Bema, his Aunt Morghild was coming, oh, joy), Tornost, Lossarnach, Dol Amroth…

His stomach dropped into the ground; he leaned on the drawer, sucking a breath, feeling as if he'd been punched. No. This couldn't possibly be right. Heart pounding, he turned to Connet. "What the fuck is this?" he said.

"Sir?"

"This list," he said, trying not to shout, shaking the document in the young man's face. "Who made this?"

"I don't know, sir," Connet said, notes of panic at the edge of his voice. "I haven't been involved in any of the arrangements. Fenbrand's been handling it himself."

What the fuck kind of game was Fenbrand playing?

Eomer took a deep breath, trying to force himself to stay calm. It could be an honest mistake. Some kind of slip of the pen.

No. Fenbrand never made mistakes. Not mistakes like this.

"You said Fenbrand went to the canteen?" Eomer said.

"Yes, sir."

"How do I get there?" It was a little embarrassing that he didn't know, but it was a part of the Palace he never went into.

Connet swallowed. "Go left out the door, sir. Right to the end of the hall. Down two levels at the stairs. Turn left at the bottom. Straight ahead through the double doors. You can't miss it."

"Thank you," Eomer managed to say. He put the folder back, slammed the drawer, grabbed the document and strode away.

A knock on the door, the Princess Royal stuck her head in.

"Ready?" Eowyn said with a smile.

Colwenna was about to ask what for when she remembered—the banquet guest list issue, of course. She checked the clock. The King had a phone call in an hour—that should be enough time to tell him the news, let him work through his rage, wait for him to calm down. And there was definitely going to be a rage of some sorts, of that, she was absolutely sure. "Let's go find your brother," she said. "Get this whole thing over and done with."

They didn't have far to go—Fenbrand's team worked at the other end of the hall. Only Connet was in the room. He looked a little pale, as if he'd just seen a ghost.

"Connet?" Eowyn said, rushing forward. "Is everything alright?"

"Your Highness," Connet said, dipping his head in a quick bow. "I, um, I'm honestly not sure. I think there might be a problem." He swallowed. "I think I might just have messed up."

That seemed unlikely, given what a sensible young man he was. "What's wrong?" Colwenna came forward to ask. "What happened?"

Connet's eyes flitted between them, not sure who to focus on first. "I showed the King how to find a document, ma'am. And I think I maybe shouldn't have."

Dread pooled in Colwenna's stomach. "Which document?" she whispered, praying to all the Gods, begging them not to give her the answer she knew was coming.

"The guest list, ma'am," Connet confessed. "For the anniversary banquet in August."

"Oh, Gods," said Eowyn, clamping a hand to her mouth. "He's seen it?"

Head hanging, Connet nodded. "A few minutes ago."

"Where is he?" Colwenna demanded. "Where did His Majesty go?"

"To find Fenbrand, I think."

" _Where_?" Colwenna repeated.

"The canteen, ma'am."

The canteen. At eight-twenty on a Monday morning. One of the two busiest times of the week. " _Fuck_ ," she spat. She tugged Eowyn's sleeve, pulling her to the door.

"Where are we going?" Eowyn asked, rushing to catch up as Colwenna strode away, aiming for the stairs at the end of the hall.

"To the canteen. To stop your brother doing something he'll regret." She saw two of the King's guards in a side hall. "You two," she shouted, pointing at them. "Come with me. _Right_ now."

Even without Connet's instructions, the canteen would have been easy to find—all he had to do was follow the stream of people.

Some of those people noticed him, sucked in a breath, dipped their heads and jumped aside, tugging the sleeves of their less observant companions to pull them out of his way.

The double doors to the canteen loomed. Eyes focused straight ahead, Eomer stormed through them, almost taking out someone approaching them on the other side. The young man scowled, opened his mouth to say something snarky to him, blinked in horrified recognition and quickly stepped out of his way.

The canteen. He'd never been here before. Unfamiliar territory. A well-lit kitchen space straight ahead with stations for all types of meals, tables of various sizes and shapes along the side walls, a row of windows on the left. About three quarters of the tables had people at them. Eight-twenty on a Monday, of course—the start of week rush.

Heads turned towards him, attracted by the movement and noise. Everyone in the canteen froze, caught in a perfect 'what the fuck' moment, not quite believing who'd just stepped into the room. The bubble burst, dozens of chairs scraped back, every person in the room simultaneously shot to their feet. All chatter stopped, a chair fell over, a knife clattered across the floor.

Total, utter, terrified silence.

Eomer glanced around, looking for the man he'd come here to find. He saw other familiar faces—Vonnal and Nedris, a wide-eyed Ranlen, an ashen-faced Sorka.

"Your Majesty," someone murmured. Fastmer, at his left shoulder, quiet and calm. "Perhaps you should go back to your office. Let one of us find Fenbrand for you."

No. He'd come this far, he was bloody well going to do this himself. He scanned again, and there was Fenbrand, frowning, trotting towards him. As Eomer strode to close the gap, Fenbrand showed a politely puzzled smile. "Your Majesty, is there something I can help you with?"

Oh, boy, was there _ever_. Eomer went to the nearest empty table, threw the document on it. He stabbed the line with Lothiriel's name. "What the _fuck_ is that?" he said, loud enough to make a young woman at the next table gasp in surprise.

Fenbrand took out his glasses, fumbled them on, leaned in to read. In an instant, his puzzlement vanished, replaced with white-faced fear. He knew. The lying, devious bastard _knew_. Was he Camelor's spy after all? Leaking some things, but keeping other things to himself, sabotaging Eomer's life in more than one way? "Sir—"

"Why is _that_ name on _this_ list?" Eomer tried not to shout. "I told you, when we talked about this, under absolutely _no_ circumstances was this person to be included."

"Your Majesty, perhaps we could talk about this in your office," Fenbrand whispered.

"I don't want to talk about this in my office," Eomer snapped, every cell in his body boiling with fiery, incandescent rage. It was taking ever ounce of control he had not to flip the whole table over, or pick a chair up and throw it through the nearest window. He thumped his fist on the document, making everyone in a two-metre radius jump. "I want to talk about it here!"

He jerked round as the canteen door burst open, admitting a harried-looking Eowyn and Colwenna. Two guards quickly followed—Guthlaf and Dernbrand, hunched and tensed, scanning the room for threats. They rushed to stand with Fastmer, as did Vonnal and Nedris, quietly sliding out from behind their table. The five guards formed a semi-circle at Eomer's rear. Were they here to protect him from the canteen's guests, or the canteen's guests from him? The way his temper was running, it was an even bet.

Colwenna hurried over. "Your Majesty—"

"Did you know about this?" Eomer demanded, picking up the document to shake it at her. "About who's on this _fucking_ list?"

"Not here," she said in a low voice, giving him the firmest of glares. "Let's go to your office. We'll talk it through there."

Mother of Eru, not Colwenna as well? Of all the people to betray him. "Is anyone in this whole _fucking_ building not trying to hide things from me?" he shouted, looking around.

Face scrunching in fury, Colwenna's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist in a nerve-pinching grip. "Not here," she ground out through clenched teeth.

The pain at his wrist cut through his anger. "You _knew_ ," he said. He looked to Eowyn, then to Fenbrand again, who immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. "You _all_ knew. And none of you had the guts to tell me."

Eowyn stepped forward, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Let's go upstairs and talk about this," she murmured. "We really shouldn't do this here."

Of course they bloody well shouldn't. Not where all the staff could see. Gods forbid they give the little people something scandalous to gossip about for the rest of the week. And Bema, they were going to gossip so much about this the air around the Palace would start to vibrate.

He didn't care anymore. He was tired of trying to deal with the gossip. From now on, they could all say whatever the fuck they all wanted.

He snatched his wrist out of Colwenna's grip, shoved through the circle of guards, strode to the door, barged out as violently as he'd barged in. Two more guards were outside—Elfwina and Mordoc—holding new arrivals back. He dropped his eyes to the floor and marched as fast as he could, refusing to meet anyone's gaze.

He didn't care what the explanation was. Heads were going to roll for this.

It was just a question of how many, and whose.

Sometimes, he had the worst fucking luck.

A minute earlier, and he would still have been in the bathroom stall. A minute later, and he would have been out the door before Camelor even turned up.

But, no. Camelor had to step through the door just as he was going to the sink. The one moment he couldn't escape without someone questioning his hygiene choices.

Fuck.

Duncan ignored the other earl, focused on soaping and rinsing his hands, using his body language to make it clear he had absolutely nothing to say.

But Camelor being Camelor was having none of it. He stopped just inside the door, wearing that supercilious smirk on his face. "I heard some interesting gossip today," he said.

Duncan turned off the tap, shook the excess water off his fingers. "Congratulations. I'm very happy for you," he said in a bored voice.

Camelor took a step in. "I always knew you Hamelmarks liked to scrape the bottom of the barrel, but you've really outdone yourselves this time."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, your daughter has terrible taste in men." Sighing, Camelor shook his head. "Just shocking."

Tensing, Duncan turned to face him. "The fuck are you talking about?" he spat.

"A motorcycle mechanic?" Camelor said. "Is that really the best she can do?"

How the _hell_ did Camelor know about Brendal?

A victorious grin spread on Camelor's face. "You're wondering how I even know." He moved to stand in front of a mirror, smoothing his coat, adjusting his tie. "Everyone knows," he said to Duncan through his reflection. "It apparently came up at some Solstice party somewhere on Saturday night." He shrugged. "You know how gossip works. The only thing that travels faster in this building is blame."

Erella. She must have told other people, Gods dammit. Not that she would have intended this, but could she not just have kept what he'd told her to herself? "It doesn't matter how and where it came up. It's not really anyone's business who my daughter does or doesn't date." Except maybe his, but he _was_ her father.

"True." Camelor turned to smile at him. "But if she was _my_ daughter, and she came home one day to tell me she was dating a bike mechanic, I would disinherit her on the spot."

Duncan let out a snort. "Rogen, if Solly was your daughter, she would have filed for emancipation as soon as she was old enough to know what the word meant." He reached for a paper towel. "Or strangled you in your sleep. One or the other, I'm not really sure." His money was on the latter—she would think about the benefit to other people as well.

"You must be so proud of her."

Love and pride and rage swelled in his chest in equal measure. "More than you could _possibly_ know."

Camelor looked him up and down. "Yes, well. Some of us have higher standards. And better plans for our daughters."

Just listening to this arsehole talk was enough to drive you to drink. "Rogen, can I ask a favour?" Duncan said.

"You can ask, yes."

"Could you maybe drop the whole sneering super-villain routine and just get the fuck over yourself?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"We both know this pompous shite has nothing to do with who my daughter is dating. It's got everything to do with what just happened to your petition." Duncan turned to throw his paper towel in the bin. "And don't try to deny you were involved, because I know for a fact you were. Face facts. You lost, we won. Thenwis doesn't get to be Queen. And for better or worse, whether you like him or not, Eomer stays on the throne."

Camelor smiled. "Yes, well. Let's wait and see what happens there." He gave a curt nod, turned and strode to the door.

Duncan leaned on the sink, suppressing the urge to turn the tap on and stick his head under. He'd only been in the building for ten minutes, hadn't even made it into the Hall, and his blood was already boiling.

And that parting remark—what the _fuck_ was Camelor up to now?


	82. Chapter 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Eomer's blowup - apologies and explanations all round.

The door slamming broke the spell.

Instantly, everyone in the canteen unfroze, sighing, letting out breaths, turning to their neighbours to whisper, a few older, less shockable souls simply going back to their food. A knocked over chair was picked up; a dropped piece of cutlery was collected. Two tables away, a young woman Colwenna didn't know covered her mouth with her hand and started to cry.

This would be all over the palace by nine, all over the city by noon, and in all of the tabloids tomorrow. A RIGHT ROYAL RAGE, the headlines would shout.

"Let me follow up with the King," Eowyn said. "You stay here to speak with the staff." Smiling, she laid a gentle hand on Fenbrand's arm. "Why don't you go back to your office?" she said, as if she was trying to calm to a badly-spooked horse. "See if you can make a start on the damage control?"

Fenbrand simply stared. The poor man was overloading; he'd probably never been spoken to in that manner before. By _anyone_ , never mind the King.

"The damage, Fenbrand," Colwenna firmly repeated. "People are going to talk. If we're not careful, this will be all over the papers tomorrow."

He nodded, slowly at first, then more surely. "Of course, yes. Leave this with me." He checked his watch. "I need to make some phone calls." He looked from Eowyn to Colwenna. "Are you sure you don't need my help?"

"Absolutely," Eowyn said, waving him to the door. "Go do your bit. We'll deal with the King."

Fenbrand hesitated, nodded again and hurried away.

Colwenna watched him go. "He's going to need a quick shot of gin."

"He's not the only one," Eowyn murmured, scanning the room. "I wouldn't mind a glass of something strong myself right now."

"Why don't you let me deal with your brother?" Colwenna suggested. "You stay here, make sure everyone's alright." Holding her hand in front of her chest, she pointed her thumb at the crying young woman behind her. "Have a quick chat with her," she whispered. "I think she just started last week. This would have been her first time seeing the King in the flesh. She's probably wondering what the hell's going on."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for me to go and you to stay?" Eowyn said. "The people here all know you. I don't want to scare them."

"You'll be fine, don't worry. They all know you as well, and I'm sure they'll appreciate the special attention." But that wasn't the only reason for Colwenna's suggestion. "And I think I should be the one who does the explaining. I should have known how badly your brother would take the news. I should just have told him about the Lothiriel thing the day we found out."

"We made that decision together," Eowyn said. "It wasn't just you. You don't need to take the blame."

"I'm certainly not going to allow Fenbrand to take it, and out of the two of us, it'll be easier if he's angry with me than with you. Your temper's too similar to his, the two of you will just wind each other up. I know how to nip his rages in the bud." With a foot up a royal arse, if necessary.

"Are you sure?"

Colwenna nodded. "I'll come see you when it's all done."

"Good luck," Eowyn called out as Colwenna turned away.

She was going to need more than luck. She was going to need every ounce of temper-defusing talent she had…

Fastmer and Guthlaf were at the King's door.

Guthlaf was as white as a sheet, and even the usually unflappable Fastmer looked a little bit strained.

"How is he?" Colwenna murmured to the head guard.

"Not good," he said. "I think he's slammed every door in the whole apartment. You might want to give him an hour to cool down. Or have someone in the room with you."

Colwenna shook her head. "We don't have an hour. And I won't be in any danger, don't worry."

"You sure?" Fastmer said, voice full of concern.

"Absolutely. He's like his mother. His temper's all bark and no bite. He'll shout a lot, slam some more doors, but that's as far as he'll go."

"Call if you need any help."

She marched through the double doors and turned to push them over behind her. For this to go well, she needed privacy, and no interruptions. When the doors were a half metre apart, she stuck her head through to say, "Nobody comes in until I come out. Is that clear?"

Fastmer nodded. "Crystal."

She slammed the doors shut.

He wasn't in his office.

Or in his sitting room. Or in his morning room. Or anywhere in his private suite, for that matter.

She was halfway to panicking and calling out to Fastmer for help when she noticed the door to the terrace was slightly ajar. He must be out in the Folly, then. His hidey-hole, as Eowyn called it—where he went when he felt overwhelmed and wanted the world to go away and leave him alone. He'd always had one, even as a young child. At least she could access this one herself—he hadn't wedged himself into a cupboard under the stairs, or disappeared into the bowels of the cellars where not even the bravest footman would follow.

She strode across the terrace, aiming for the stairs that would take her onto the rampart wall. She followed the path until it brought her to King Fengel's Folly. And sure enough, she found him there, sitting on the ground, back against a half-ruined wall, elbows resting on his knees, head forlornly hanging down.

She cleared her throat, letting him know he wasn't alone.

He brought his head up; the look he gave her almost made her take a step back. A look she'd never seen from him before. Cold, furious, burning rage, but ragged, wounded betrayal as well. This might not go quite as well as she'd thought. "How could you lie to me?" he snapped, hazel eyes flashing in the bright morning sun. " _You_ , of all people?"

"I didn't lie to you," she said. "I _kept_ something from you. It's not the same thing."

"That's like saying it's not cheating if you don't fuck."

"We had no intention of keeping the information from you for long," she said, keeping her voice quiet and calm. "Believe it or not, we _did_ have a plan." A bad one, as it turned out. It was obvious now, they should have told him the day they'd found out, or shortly after, not worried so much about how much of a burden it would have added. But there was no point in crying over spilled milk. All she could do now was mop it up and refill the jug.

"So, you weren't just going to spring it on me at the banquet, then? Wait until the car with the Dol Amroths pulled up, take me aside and say 'oh, yeah, did we mention bitch face is coming'?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. She understood his anger, but language like that was going too far. "There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why we did what we did. Which I'll happily share with you, if you'll just get up off your petulant arse and talk to me like a rational adult."

Scowling, he pushed up from the ground, wiping down the back of his trousers. "Where's Eowyn?" he said, eyes flicking to the doorway behind her.

"Still down in the canteen. One of the female members of staff was crying. Your sister stayed to have a word with her. "

Guilt flashed across his face, his eyes dropped to the ground. "I didn't mean to upset anyone."

"You know what I'm going to say here, don't you?"

Shoulders slumping, he sighed. "You're going to remind me I never do."

"One of these days, you'll learn how to keep that hot-headed nature of yours in check. How to think before you speak or act. How to realize that blindly lashing out at people usually has consequences."

He smirked. "Just not today, right?"

"Apparently not." And she didn't have much hope for tomorrow, either. But some day, maybe.

"Where's Fenbrand?" he said. "He not joining us either?"

"He's gone to his office to start dealing with the fallout your tantrum will have triggered."

"What fallout?"

Bema save them, did he really not understand how this worked? "You _do_ realize how many members of staff just witnessed you having a meltdown at your Senior Private Secretary?"

"It wasn't a meltdown."

"Really? Then what the bloody hell would you call it?"

His face screwed up. "I was angry! I wanted some answers from him!"

"Yes, and thanks to what you just did, everyone in Edoras is going to know you were angry by the end of the day! It'll be _all_ over the front pages of the tabloids tomorrow. They're going to have a field day with this!"

"To hell with the tabloids," he muttered, waving her off. "Let them print whatever the fuck they want. See if I care."

She prayed to Bema for patience and strength. "You get that from your mother as well."

"What?"

"That drama queen nonsense. All that pompous 'woe is me' crap. One thing goes wrong, and you're ready to tie a concrete block to your feet and throw yourself in the river. She was _exactly_ the same. And her attitude was just as unhelpful then as yours is now."

Instantly, the worst of his anger subsided. "I'm not trying to be unhelpful. I'm just… I'm _upset_. I don't appreciate being lied to. Or having things kept from me. I want to know what the _fuck_ is going on, and I want to know _now_."

"That's why I'm here," she said calmly.

"Just you?"

She nodded. "I know the whole story. I can tell you everything you need to know."

"Didn't have you marked as the falling on your sword type."

"Oh, so, you're planning to fire me, then?" Not a productive solution in her opinion, but if that was where he wanted to go, nobody could get in his way.

"I'm giving very serious thought to firing someone, yes. I can't fire Eowyn, so it's either Fenbrand or you."

"Leave Fenbrand out of this. He doesn't deserve to be fired."

"He lied to me as well."

"Only because your sister and I asked him to. Out of the three of us, he's the _least_ at fault here." Plus, he had the most to lose—if Eomer got rid of him now, it would cause him pension problems. "So, if you feel the need to be vindictive, you can be vindictive to me."

"Don't think I won't fire you just because of who you are," he warned.

"And don't think I won't pack and go just because of who _you_ are," Colwenna retorted.

That took the wind right out of sails. "So, lying to me wasn't enough? Now, you'll just up and abandon me as well?"

"Och, away and _shite_ yourself with your nonsense," she said, borrowing one of Brendal's more colourful phrases. "I'm not abandoning anyone, least of all you, which you know perfectly well." Taking his hands in hers, she looked him straight in the eye. "I am your _naming mother_ ," she pointed out. "I was the third person to ever hold you, when you were all of twenty minutes old, before your grandparents even knew you'd been born. I have been here for you _every single day_ of your life for the last twenty-two years"—and almost every day of the first twelve as well—"and you are the closest thing I will ever have to a son, but if you think for a minute I'm going to put up with any childish, temperamental crap, you've got another think coming. You are a thirty-four-year-old man. And the eighteenth King of Rohan." She dropped his hands and stepped away. " _Act_ like it."

This was the pivot. His escalate or back down moment. If he chose the former, she would be packing her bags.

"I'm sorry," he quietly said, choosing the latter. "I know I shouldn't let my temper get the better of me. It's just…" He leaned his head back to stare at the sky. "This is something I can't be calm about."

"Lothiriel?"

Nodding, he brought his head down. "She's the one person in the whole world I _never_ want to speak to again."

"Not even if she was coming to apologize to you?" Colwenna said.

He blinked in shock. "What?"

"She's not coming to the banquet because she's trying to humiliate you. She's coming in the hope of making amends."

"Amends?" he repeated. "After what she did? She thinks she can just waltz into my house and tell me she's _sorry_? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"There's no need for that language," Colwenna snapped.

He grimaced. "Sorry, it's just, this whole thing is a bit of a shock."

"I know it is," she said softly, laying a hand on his arm. "We never intended for you to find out like this. It was going to be something we broke to you gently."

He snorted. "Gently. Right."

"Would it help if I explained the situation from the beginning?"

"Oh, do, please," he said, voice dripping in scorn. "I'm _dying_ to find out why all of you collectively thought your solution was anything other than a totally shitty idea."

"Prince Imrahil contacted us at the end of May to confirm who from his family would be attending the banquet. The guest list included his daughter."

He raised his index finger. "The one person I told Fenbrand should _never_ be allowed to attend."

Something Fenbrand hadn't shared, but no point in bleating about it now; this whole thing was one, huge communication fuckup. "Prince Imrahil also sent us a letter, in which he explained _why_ he was including his daughter in the proceedings. I can't quote the text exactly, but the gist of it was that Lothiriel wants to meet with you in person, so she can apologize for the offence she gave."

"It'll have to be a hell of an apology."

"She's Gondorian. It's going be the most complex apology you'll ever receive."

"Okay, but why didn't she just put it in a letter instead?"

"I've no idea. But wouldn't you rather have an in-person apology?"

"To be honest, I'd rather she just set herself on fire."

"Not helpful."

He glowered, crossed his arms, kicked a pebble across the floor. "What makes you think I'm even willing to listen to her?" he eventually said.

He was coming around, slowly but surely. "Because whatever other faults you may have, and Bema knows you have plenty of them"—he huffed and rolled his eyes—"you've always been a fair-minded man. I can't think of a single situation where you've refused to at least hear someone out when they've made a mistake or done something wrong. You have your mother's temper, yes, but you have your father's generous nature as well."

He smiled a little. "That's what Aunt Eorwena said. Back at my birthday party. She said I get my kindness from him. And that it's important for a king to be kind."

Wonder of wonders, Eorwena giving useful advice for once. "She's right. You do, and it is."

The smile dropped. "But for this situation, I'm not sure I have any kindness to spare."

"Really? So you want to carry this anger for the rest of your life? You want to be sitting here fifty years from now thinking 'screw that bitch'? Is that what you're saying?"

"Of course not."

"How long is it going to take you to let it go then? Ten years? Twenty? Thirty?"

"Stop being so goddamn rational," he shouted. "This isn't a rational thing."

"I'm well aware of that. And I'm also well aware of just how badly she hurt you. And how much what happened has affected you over the years."

"Affected me?" he echoed, brows shooting up.

"Affected you, yes. I remember what you were like when you got home from that trip. How long it was before you went on another date."

"It didn't exactly leave me brimming with confidence, okay?"

"Of course it didn't." She hesitated, not sure he would be willing to hear what else she wanted to say. "And if I'm being honest, I think what happened gave you some trust issues as well."

Shaking his head, he waved her off. "Don't pull the trust card on me. Eowyn tried that already. I told her then what I'll tell you now. I don't like what Lothiriel did, but she didn't leave me with some kind of deep-seated damage."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Colwenna said. Softly, she added, "Especially after what Heridwen did."

His face twisted in sullen anger. "She was a massive mistake. I should never have let our relationship develop so far in the first place. I should have realized sooner she had ulterior motives."

"You weren't the only one she fooled." The woman had pulled the wool over everyone's eyes—Eowyn, Fenbrand, Algrin, Eorwena. Even Fastmer had thought she was the real deal. "Don't feel guilty about what happened. It wasn't just on you."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But it didn't make what she did any easier to live with."

"And you've barely been in a serious relationship since."

"I'm having a fourth date with Solwen tonight," he pointed out.

"Which nobody is more pleased about than I am." Even if she still had a few concerns. All more to do with Lady Solwen's family history than with her directly. "It's still early days, but I have great hopes for where it might go."

He smiled softly. "Yeah. Me too. I can't wait to see her again."

An admission that warmed her down to her toes. "But it's another reason why I think you should take that apology," she said. "You've just started something new. Something that could be _wonderful_ for you. Let go of what happened with Lothiriel. Leave it in the past where it belongs. Don't drag it into the future with you. Don't create a situation where it could poison what you and Solwen have."

He glowered at her. "You're being rational again."

The only one of them, it seemed. "You _must_ sometimes feel yourself it's time to put what happened behind you."

"Sometimes, yes," he admitted. His scowl came out again. "But sometimes I like that it gives me something to be angry about."

"Are you still angry at the Lasgalene banks because of what happened with Grima?"

He snorted. "Course I bloody well am."

She held her hands wide. "You still have something to rage about, then." Not forever—he would have to let the Grima thing go at some point as well.

Sighing, he crossed his arms to pace back and forth. She could almost hear the wall in his head coming down, brick by stubborn, hot-headed brick. "Let's say for a moment I'm willing to hear Lothiriel out. How exactly would it all work?"

"However you want it to work. You're the King, and the one who was wronged. I'm sure you could set the agenda."

"So, if I told her she has to apologize in front of all the people who were there when she did what she did, would she agree?"

An alarm bell started to ring. "I'm not sure. We'd have to discuss it. But is that what you really want?"

"You're the one who always tells me I can't hurt someone in public then make it up to them in private. Why should it be any different for her?"

"I tell you that because you're the _King_. Because you have authority and influence. Because whether you like it or not, your behaviour sets an example to other people. When you do something wrong in public, you need to correct it in public as well."

"I just…"

Cold anger washed through her as she realized where he was pushing. "She humiliated you in front of her family, and now you want to return the favour? You want her to eat crow in front of her parents and brother. Is _that_ it?"

"Well… yes."

"Why stop there?" she asked, trying to keep her anger under control. He was right to feel angry, right to be sensitive about his wounded pride, but this was not the kind of person anyone had raised him to be. "Why not ask her to apologize in front of everyone at the banquet? Put her up on the stage, give her a microphone, tell her to get on her knees and grovel as hard as she can?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "That would be monstrously cruel."

Her anger calmed, assuaged. "I'm extremely relieved to hear you say that."

"I just… I feel like a thing involving her family would be fair."

"It probably would. But apologies aren't about settling scores. They're about allowing someone to acknowledge they made a mistake, and to show remorse for their actions. If you force her into a demeaning act of public contrition, you won't clear the air. You'll just make the problem worse. Everyone will go away from the process thinking you're an arsehole who got what you deserved." She gripped his arm, trying to make him see sense. "It's not about payback, or retribution. It's about compassion, and forgiveness. About being the bigger man."

"What if I don't want to be the bigger man? What if I want to be the small, petty man instead?"

"You mean like Rogen Camelor?"

Scowling, he pulled his arm away. "That is _not_ fair."

"I think it's perfectly fair." This was one of the things she'd tried to raise him not to do—think he could get away with things other people couldn't just because of who he was. "The way you feel about Lothiriel right now, it's the same way he feels about your family. Do you ever wonder, where you and the Camelors might be, if your grandmother had just had the balls to apologize to him? If someone somewhere in this Palace had just done the right thing, and told the family they were sorry?"

His shoulders slumped. "I actually think about it a lot," he admitted. "About how much trouble it's caused us over the years. How _easy_ it would have been to fix."

"Back then, yes. But not now."

"You don't think we can still fix it?"

She shook her head; that boat had long since sailed. "Far too much time has passed. Camelor's grown so used to hating you, he doesn't even remember why he started in the first place. It's become as instinctive for him as breathing." She took his hand in hers to squeeze it. "And I don't want how you feel about Lothiriel to become instinctive for you. Let it go. For your own sake, if not for hers. Please," she pleaded.

He moved away, stood quietly, hands on hips, staring through the holes in the ruined wall. She did nothing, said nothing, silently begging him to see sense, to put his anger aside for once, to make the rational, _kingly_ decision.

"Okay," he said, turning to nod at her. "Let's do it. Let's arrange for the two of us to meet."

Relief flooded through her. Finally, he would be able to put the whole mess behind him, focus only on the future instead. "But not a public meeting?" she prompted.

He shook his head. "A private one. No public humiliation."

"It'll be a good thing, I promise."

"Just don't expect us to be BFFs," he warned. "I'm willing to listen to her, hear what she has to say, and I'll treat her with the respect due to any guest, but that's all. I'm not going to give her my email address and ask her to stay in touch."

"I never imagined for a moment you would. And I can't imagine she would expect it, either."

"I dunno. If she's as self-centered now as she was then…"

"She wasn't self-centered. She was twenty-one." And the smart, beautiful, much-adored daughter of a wealthy, powerful man—never the best recipe for humble, unpretentious children. "You weren't exactly a charming delight at that age either."

"Don't think I ever did anything as bad as what Lothiriel did."

"Really? You don't remember the time you made a pass at the Dunnish ambassador's wife?" So clumsily, it had made her wince; he should have been soundly slapped for his troubles. "In the royal pavilion at the Regatta? While her husband was standing ten metres away?"

"I was _drunk_ ," he said. "And I only did it is a dare. Elfhelm's the one you should blame."

"What about the time you tried to use the first portion of your inheritance to buy a quarter share in a gentleman's club?" And calling it that was being kind—she was quite sure there had been nothing gentlemanly about it. "Was that all Elfhelm's fault as well?"

Groaning, he covered his face with his hands. "I forgot about that."

"I've never seen your grandmother so angry. She nearly died on the spot when she found out."

"Would that have been a bad thing?"

She punched him soundly on the arm. "Don't say that. I don't like her any more than you do, but it's _horrible_ to wish death on people." Even if it would have saved them fourteen years of family troubles.

"I'll admit that wasn't my finest hour," he said, rubbing his arm. "I thought it was a good investment decision. _And_ I was only twenty. _Not_ twenty-one."

"Yes, because a year makes _all_ the difference."

His demeanour turned sombre again. "We'll need to get in touch with Dol Amroth, let them know I've agreed to allow Lothiriel to attend the banquet."

Now, for the awkward part. "So here's the thing," she started.

He sighed. "You've already told them, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Okay, now I want to fire you all over again."

"You delegate important decisions to me all the time. This was no different."

"I don't agree on that second part, but not to the point I want to pick another fight about it."

"Good."

"Explains why Aragorn was so confused. He knew we'd agreed to the request, but he hadn't had an angry phone call from me demanding to know what the fuck was going on."

Two puzzle pieces clicked together. "Is that why you started asking about the guest list? Because of what _Aragorn_ said?" Which, in hindsight, was something they should have considered.

He nodded. "He called me on Friday morning to talk about the petition result. He mentioned the matter then. Said I should take a look at the list, call him as soon as I'd seen it."

"And why do you think he did that?" she said, even though she knew the answer already. "Ask you to call him, I mean?"

"Because he knew I would be angry," he quietly said.

"And _did_ you call him?"

With a hangdog look, he shook his head.

"So, this whole fiasco this morning could _easily_ have been avoided, if you'd just taken His Majesty's advice? If you'd spoken to him before you lashed out?"

"I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Yes, well. You weren't the only one. We could all have handled this issue better." She couldn't speak for his sister or Fenbrand, but she had certainly learned a lesson today. No more lying or keeping things from him, even when she meant well.

"I should go call Aragorn now." He frowned as he checked the time. "When's my first official call again?"

"Nine thirty." Which gave him forty minutes. "But you need to speak to Fenbrand first."

He nodded. "I need to look at that letter Imrahil sent."

"Yes, but you also need to apologize."

"Sorry?"

"You need to apologize to Fenbrand," she sternly repeated. "For your behaviour in the canteen." He opened his mouth, she raised a hand to cut him off. "I know you were angry, and I know you were looking for answers, but you _cannot_ speak to people that way. Especially not employees, and not in front of other people. It's a quick and easy way to make everyone in the household hate you."

He scowled at her, but didn't object.

"And you'll make it a proper apology. Not some half-hearted thing for appearance's sake. He's a capable and loyal man, who only ever does something because he thinks it's the right thing to do. He didn't deserve what you just did to him." Neither had she, but she was more than an employee, and Fenbrand had taken the worse beating by far. "So, you're going to say sorry to him, and you're going to mean it. Is that clear?"

"Yes, mother," he muttered.

She turned to wave to the door. "Let's get your arse to Fenbrand's office. Go sort this bloody mess out."

He waved her ahead. "Lead the way."

"I assume you still want to see Lady Solwen tonight?" she said as they started to walk.

"I do, yes."

The answer she'd been hoping to hear. "Good. Then, there's no need for me to change any plans." And it would give him something to look forward to—a nicer end to his day than the start.

"What time will she be here?"

"Seven forty-five," she said. "Your dinner thing will be done at seven, but you'll need some time to get home and change."

"You'll meet her, I guess?"

"I'll collect her from the garage, yes." Which reminded her of that _other_ matter. "And speaking of Lady Solwen," she started as they reached the terrace stairs, "am I correct in thinking she was the subject of some unusual gossip on Saturday night?"

"The gossip about her and Brendal, you mean."

" _That_ gossip, yes." She grabbed his arm. "Eomer, child, I know it's none of my business, but what in Bema's name is going on?"

His mouth quirked in a grin. "I'm going to be naughty, suggest you ask Brendal about it instead. Or Lady Solwen. They're responsible for the gossip." He held a hand to his chest. "I had nothing to do with it. _I'm_ just along for the ride."

Along for the ride; a phrase that conjured all _manner_ of thoughts. "Does this have anything to do with why the Earl of Hamelmark invited Brendal to dinner?"

"It does, yes." He held up a silencing hand. "But go ask Brendal about it, please. It's, uh"—the grin quirked again—"it's _complicated_. He's the one who knows all the details. He'll do a much better job of explaining than me."

Cold dread pooled in her stomach. "I'm not going to like it, am I?"

"Colwenna, knowing you as well as I do, it's probably going to make you want to retire."

Something truly awful, then. Something _utterly_ improper…

In his reception hall, they came to a halt in front of the table, turned to quietly face each other.

The King blew out a doleful sigh. "I'm sorry I lost my temper at you."

"And I'm sorry we didn't just tell you the truth when the whole thing came up."

"That reminds me, when _did_ it come up?"

"A few days before your birthday party."

He grunted. "To be fair, that wasn't the most relaxing week I've ever had."

"That's the only reason we did what we did," Colwenna said, laying a hand on his arm again. "You had the birthday party, the lunch with your grandmother, the opening of Parliament, the threat of the petition. We didn't want to overload you. But the way we handled it was wrong. I give you my word, we won't _ever_ do that to you again."

"Can't ask for more than that."

Said the man who'd asked for a unicorn for his fifth birthday. "Oh, I'm quite sure you could, if you put your mind to it."

Smiling, he pulled her into a hug. A quick one, but it still felt good.

"We good?" he said when he pulled away.

She nodded. _"We_ are, yes." She guided him towards the door. "But you have to make it good with Fenbrand as well." And also his sister, but that could come later.

"No hugging Fenbrand, though, right?"

The mere thought made Colwenna shudder. "Please don't hug him, no. He'd die of an emotional aneurysm if you even tried. A handshake is as much personal contact as Fenbrand can take." And maybe, if he was in the right mood, a collegial pat on the shoulder as well. But a _hug?_ Eru and all the Maiar save them, absolutely not.

"I'll be back for my call," he said as he opened the door. "See you soon."

He slipped out, closing the door over behind him. She turned to survey the hall, trying to remember what the hell she was supposed to be doing now. The pantry in his sitting room, yes—restocking his wine supplies for tonight. And then, once that was done, down to the garage for that little chat…

As Eomer strode into the room, everyone shot to their feet.

No welcoming smiles and greetings today. Heads respectfully dipped, then everyone stood where they were, eyes firmly fixed on the floor, radiating awkward tension. Eomer couldn't blame them. He'd just ripped their boss a profanity-laden new one in full view of a third of the staff. Hardly the happiest start to the week.

He'd caused the problem, so it was up to him to solve it as well. "Good morning," he said, scanning the room to take in the whole team. "Is Fenbrand available?"

Silence. And Sorka wouldn't meet his gaze. Small wonder—she'd been in the canteen, seen his loss of temper firsthand.

Connet cleared his throat. "He's in his office sir. On the phone, I believe."

As if summoned, the door opened and Fenbrand appeared. His face went scarily blank, he dipped his head in a stiff bow. "Your Majesty," he said, just a little more curtly than usual. "Was there something I could assist you with?"

"There is, yes." Eomer took a breath, channelled his inner bigger man. He hated doing this, but it had to be done. The irony didn't escape him—he was having to do the very thing Lothiriel wanted him to allow her to do. He scanned the tense faces again. "I'm here to apologize for what just happened in the canteen. I know some of you were there"—he looked at Sorka, who flushed and looked away—"and I'm quite sure the rest of you have heard what happened."

"Your Majesty—" Fenbrand started.

Eomer held up his hand. "No, let me finish, please." His next words were to Fenbrand directly. "My behaviour this morning was inexcusable. I was angry, and confused, but that didn't give me the right to speak to you the way I did. You are a valued and highly capable member of my professional team, and you deserve to be treated as such."

Fenbrand dipped his head. "Thank you, sir," he quietly said. "No harm done here." He forced a smile. "Not the first time I've been shouted at."

"But it will be the last," Eomer said. He scanned the other faces again, Sorka looked a little happier now. Good. The last thing he needed was for her to go home tonight and tell her friends and family what a fucking asshole he was. "No shouting at anyone. I give you my word." He forced a small smile of his own. "Except maybe the Princess Royal. But that's different, and usually because she shouts at me first." He turned to Fenbrand again. "Colwenna mentioned there was a letter I should read."

Fenbrand blinked, then smiled in understanding. "Of course, sir, yes." He waved Eomer into the office. "If you'll follow me, sir, I have it right here."

He probably shouldn't read it here in the outer office. Just in case it made him want to have a meltdown again; one public meltdown a day was enough. He followed Fenbrand into his room, gently closing the door behind him. "Fenbrand, again, I'm _deeply_ sorry for my behaviour this morning. If there's anything I can do to make up for it, please let me know." A bottle of something might be on the cards—Fenbrand was a port man, if he remembered correctly.

Fenbrand shook his head. "It's quite alright, sir. To be honest, I feel terrible about what happened. I should have known not to keep something that important from you."

"To be fair, you didn't make the decision on your own." And both of the other people who'd been in on the matter outranked him. Well, Eowyn did at least. Best not to say Colwenna outranked him—that might simply ruffle his feathers again.

"There is that, yes." Fenbrand opened a folder on his desk, drew out a piece of paper, held it out to him. "This is the letter from Prince Imrahil, sir."

Eomer took the letter. He scanned through it, muttering under his breath, feeling his temper rising again. But for an entirely different reason this time. "Fenbrand, what the hell does this gibberish even say?"

"It's formal High Family style, sir. It says Her Highness would like to meet with you, so she can apologize for her behaviour and acknowledge the consequences of her actions."

"Haven't really been any consequences though, have there?" Other than knocking his confidence with women for a few months, but that was hardly a life- or state-threatening matter.

"It did strain relations with Dol Amroth for a while, sir."

He shrugged. "We rarely deal with Dol Amroth directly except on a few trade issues, so no big deal." He handed the letter back. "I've already discussed the matter with Colwenna, and I've agreed to meet with Her Highness when she visits."

Fenbrand's shoulders sagged in relief. "That's _excellent_ news, sir." He hesitated, then added, "It's always good to put these difficult moments behind you, I think. To let go of any ill feeling, start over with a clean slate."

Eomer thought of his own difficult moment this morning, of how awkward things would be if he'd refused to apologize and was now leaving the matter to fester instead. Colwenna was right. He _did_ need to put the Lothiriel business behind him. Once and for all. "It is, yes."

"Would you like me to take any further action on the matter, sir?"

Eomer started to shake his head, remembered the one thing he'd forgotten to do. "There is actually, yes. Could you please contact the Royal Household in Minas Tirith, have them pass on a message to King Aragorn for me?"

"Of course, sir, yes."

"Nothing complicated. Just let him know I've seen the guest list for the banquet, discussed the situation with my people here, and I have no objections to the plan."

"That's it?"

Eomer nodded. "That's it. His Majesty will know what I mean."

"I'll take care of that right now, sir," Fenbrand said, sounding not entirely convinced.

"Good man, thank you." He gave Fenbrand's shoulder a cordial pat; as close as he would go to a hug. "I'll leave you to it."

One more apology.

The recipient was waiting outside, standing in his usual parade rest position.

"Fastmer," Eomer said.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"I think I owe you an apology."

The slightest of frowns. "For what, sir?"

"For what I did in the canteen this morning," Eomer explained. "I know that must have given you a moment of stress."

"Not the most relaxing situation I've ever been in, sir, no." A tiny trace of a smile. "If you're going to have a snit, I'd much rather you didn't do it in a room full of knives."

Eomer hadn't thought about that. "They were just cutlery knives, though." He shrugged. "No big deal."

"You can still puncture a mesenteric artery with a cutlery knife, sir."

That seemed _awfully_ specific. "Are you speaking from experience there?"

"You'll forgive me if I don't answer that, sir."

Grinning, Eomer said, "One of these days, you'll need to tell me what you got up to when you were in the Army."

Fastmer shook his head. "Can't do that, sir. Classified. Above your pay level."

"Fastmer, I'm the Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces," Eomer pointed out, feeling that was a refusal too far. "How can _anything_ about the Army be above my pay level?"

"Maybe that was the wrong phrase to use, sir. I should have said 'need to know' instead."

"And I don't need to know?"

"No, sir. You do not."

A strange feeling came over him—frustration at being so soundly rebuked, mixed with admiration for how willing Fastmer always was to rebuke him. The man could teach Not Giving A Crap at the doctorate level. "Fastmer, have I ever told you, how much I treasure these little moments of ours?"

Another frown. "Sir?"

"These moments when I try to relate to you man to man," Eomer said, waving a hand between them, "and you gently slam a door in my face." And sometimes, not so gently…

"Not sure I follow, sir."

Eomer sighed. "What I'm trying to say is, could you maybe be a _little_ less blunt?"

"Your Majesty, are you telling me you want me to kiss your arse for you?" Fastmer asked, switching his gaze to look Eomer straight in the eye.

"Don't think of it as kissing my arse. Think of it as not always needing to remind me how inadequate I am."

Fastmer fixed his eyes ahead again. "I would never call you inadequate, sir."

"Thank you."

"Imprudent would be the word I would use." Smirking, Fastmer added, "Improvident, even."

Bema save him. He didn't know why he even tried…

"Your Majesty," a voice at the end of the hallway called out.

Aragorn stopped and slowly turned, half-dreading who it would be. To his relief, it was only Denethor's younger son. Not the mighty Steward himself, thank Eru.

Faramir smiled as he hurried up, pausing to give a quick bow. "Sir, you wanted to know when we received a call from the Court in Edoras."

"Has Eomer called?" Aragorn said. Finally, after almost three days; what the _hell_ had taken so long?

Faramir nodded. "A few minutes ago, sir, yes. But it wasn't the King. It was his Senior Private Secretary."

" _Not_ the King?" That didn't make sense. "So, Eomer doesn't need to speak to me?"

Faramir shook his head. "His secretary asked me to convey a message to you, sir. He said to let you know His Majesty has seen the guest list, has discussed the situation with his people, and has no objection to the plan."

Discussed the situation with his people. What kind of barn-breaking fight was _that_ a euphemism for? There _must_ have been a fight of some kind—he couldn't imagine Eomer would have taken the news on the chin. Not with that terrible temper of his. But a productive fight, apparently, if this was the end result. " _Excellent_ news," Aragorn said, feeling the worry about the problem slipping away. "Thank you for letting me know."

Faramir dipped his head. "You're very welcome, sir." He hesitated, then said, "Would it be impertinent of me to ask which plan they're referring to?"

It would, but at least Faramir was asking politely; his father and older brother would be nowhere near as subtle. "A small matter between King Eomer and myself. Nothing to worry about for now." Which they both knew was polite royal-speak for 'please mind your own business'.

A nod, a frown, another tiny hesitation.

"Is that a problem?" Aragorn said.

"Absolutely not, sir, no. It's just"—Faramir checked the hallway behind them was clear—"does this have anything to do with why my cousin has been invited to the banquet as well?" he asked in a low voice.

And by 'cousin', he meant Lothiriel, of course. "Is her being invited a cause for concern?"

"Not at all, no," Faramir said. "It's just, she's the only unmarried Prince's daughter on the list." His smile was diplomatic. "Something that hasn't gone unnoticed in the usual Court circles."

Which was polite royal-speak for 'everyone and their uncle's brother is gossiping like mad about it'.

If she was here, what would Arwen say? Something firm, but enigmatic. "There are reasons your cousin has been invited, which I'm not at liberty to discuss," Aragorn said. "I would strongly encourage you to avoid further speculation on the matter."

"Yes, sir, of course," Faramir said in a solemn tone. And unlike his father and brother, he wouldn't need to be told twice. He would stay silent on the whole matter—no further gossip would pass his lips.

"Was there anything else? In the phone message, I mean?"

Faramir shook his head. "Just that, sir."

"Thank you."

Hearing Aragorn's unvoiced dismissal, Faramir bowed again and strode away.

So, Eomer had seen the list, and for reasons unknown to Bema nor man, hadn't lost his shit to the point where he needed a call to calm him down? What the _hell_ was going on there? Had Eowyn shouted at him until he'd seen sense? Or Colwenna, maybe? Eowyn could be scary when she got going, but Colwenna was _terrifying_. A small part of Aragorn couldn't wait until she and Lord Denethor met. They were either going to get along like a house on fire, or secretly try to murder each other.

And there was another interesting question; if they _did_ try to murder each other, what methods might they use, and who should he put his money on? Denethor would probably be a poison man—something underhand and subtle—but what approach would Colwenna take? A 'fault' in a gas heater, maybe? A 'slip' at the top of a steep set of stairs?

Hmm.

Now he had something to ponder through his next meeting…


	83. Chapter 83

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fastmer follows up with Algrin. Colwenna chats to Brendal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to include Solwen's next date with Eomer, but that part could take a couple of days to write, so let's just publish what I have :)
> 
> Also, I had to rewrite some lines in the previous chapter - the bit where Colwenna talks to Eomer briefly about what Solwen and Brendal are doing. Just to make this all fit in a more logical way :)

Algrin must be in his office; Fastmer could smell the coffee brewing from twenty metres away.

He better be brewing enough for two people. Fastmer needed a cup of coffee right now, probably wouldn't refuse if Algrin offered to add a splash of something bracing on top. Not a full measure—just enough to soothe his poor, abused nerves. He wasn't a nervous man by nature—he viewed himself as having nerves of steel—but even he'd been shaken by this morning's events.

He'd never seen the King that angry before. Not once, in the eight years he'd now been on the job. Drunk, yes. Sick, yes. Pissed off, yes. Delirious, once, after he'd accidentally taken too many anti-allergy drugs. But never so angry Fastmer had actually feared someone would come to physical harm. He hoped whatever Colwenna had said to calm the King's mood would have a lasting effect, that the King would be slower to lose his cool in the future. Anger made people hard to predict and hard to protect in a way few other emotions did. Except maybe love, but there wasn't a lot of that going on in His Majesty's life right now.

He rapped a knuckle on Algrin's door.

"Come in," a voice inside called out.

Fastmer strode into the room, and sure enough, Algrin was at the back of his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hands jammed into his trouser pockets, staring at his coffee machine as if he was waiting for it to give him the answer to the meaning of life. Or a cup of freshly-brewed coffee—one would be just as good as the other.

The brewer emitted a beep. "Would you care for a cup of coffee?" Algrin asked as he grabbed the pot.

"I certainly would. Black, no sugar, please."

Algrin grabbed two mugs, filled both to a centimetre below the brim, slid one over the counter to Fastmer, kept the other one for himself.

"I hear there was a bit of a fuss in the canteen this morning," Algrin said as he went to settle behind his desk. "With His Majesty, no less."

Fastmer claimed the other seat. "Fuss is a polite way to put it." He sipped his coffee, wincing as he burned his tongue. "I've never seen him that angry before. I honestly thought he was going to throw a chair through one of the windows."

"Is it true it was something about the Dol Amroth girl?" Algrin asked. "The one who turned him down?"

"It was, yes." Fastmer hadn't intended to raise the matter, wouldn't have said a word if Algrin hadn't broached the subject himself, but if Algrin knew what the problem was, there was no harm in talking about it. As long as Algrin didn't try to make it into scandalous gossip, of course. "She's apparently coming to the big party in August. What happened this morning was the King finding out."

"Bema," Algrin muttered. "No wonder he was so angry. Has the problem been resolved?"

Fastmer blew on his coffee, tried it again; still a touch too warm. "More or less, yes. Colwenna sorted everything out." How, or with what, he wasn't quite sure. All he knew was, the King had been raging when she'd gone in, and slightly subdued when she'd come out. She was really wasted in the Palace—she should be over at the War College, thrashing the first years into line.

"Colwenna sorts _everything_ out," Algrin added. "Bema help us all when she decides to retire."

A chilling prospect, in Fastmer's opinion—he might retire at the same time, just to save him from the pain her departure would probably trigger. "To be honest, that's something I'd rather not think about. I can't think of a single person in the whole Palace who could take over all her duties from her."

"I believe it's her intention to wait until the King marries." Algrin smirked. "Assuming whoever he marries is up to running the Household, of course."

From what Fastmer had seen of her so far, Lady Solwen looked as if she would be up to the job. But she'd only been here a handful of times, so it was early days yet. And he wasn't here to talk about the King's marriage; he had other things on his mind. "So, what was it you wanted to talk about? Your message said it was important."

Nodding, Algrin took a gulp of his coffee and put his mug down. "Something about the search for our spy."

"Has something happened?" Fastmer straightened up in his chair, all business now. "Did you find something new?"

"You could say that, yes. The warrant for Godhild's records came through, late on Friday afternoon. I meant to tell you before I left for the day, never quite got the chance."

"I thought you said it would take a week." Fastmer raised a hand. "Not that I'm complaining, of course, but it's only been two business days." And two business days over the Solstice weekend, at that. "That's _awfully_ quick."

Algrin grinned. "The person I spoke to said the judge who got the request was in an extremely helpful mood." He leaned over the desk to murmur, "He's apparently bucking for a knighthood before he retires, he probably thinks I can put in a good word for him."

"Except, the knighthood system doesn't work that way."

"Yes, well. Between you and me, I thought it best not to mention that."

"So, have you put the warrant into the bank?"

"I certainly have. At twenty to nine this morning. I spoke to the manager myself, sent the warrant over, explained the situation to him." Quickly, Algrin added, "Not the full story, of course. Just that we needed to see the records as part of a potential criminal matter."

"And?"

Algrin turned his computer screen to let Fastmer see it. "And, I now have access to the last three months' of transactions in Godhild's account. All of last year should be available by the end of the day."

This could be it; they could be about to solve the whole puzzle. Heart pounding, Fastmer asked, "And what did you find?"

"That's the problem."

"Sorry?"

"Absolutely nothing at all," Algrin said, scrolling up and down the screen. " _That's_ what I've found so far. Not so much as a single transaction out of place. She earns her salary, pays her bills, buys the occasional takeout meal or new pair of shoes." He threw up his hand in disgust. "Absolutely no sign at all she's taking money from someone."

"Fuck," Fastmer muttered. "I was so _sure_ it was her." He took a gulp of his now drinkable coffee, trying to think of what they had missed.

"And it might very well be. But if it _is_ her, and she's taking money for it, she's not putting it anywhere I can see."

"She could have another account. One she hasn't declared."

Algrin shrugged. "Or, whoever she's working with could be paying her in cash. Or, they could be settling with her in ways we can't see."

"Like Fenbrand's point, about how Harad paid Seresca," Fastmer said.

"Exactly."

"So, what the hell do we do now?"

"To be honest, I'm not really sure." Algrin turned his screen again. "Godhild was the best lead we had. If it's not her, I have no idea who it is. Or how to find them without other clues."

"Have you finished the interviews with the staff?"

Algrin shook his head. "Not yet, no. I still have a few more to do, but I'm not holding my breath on that front. So far, Godhild's been the only major suspect we've found. Everyone else has been pretty solid. A few gossipmongers here and there, but nothing beyond what you'd expect."

"I _know_ it's her," Fastmer said. "My innards are almost _screaming_ it at me." And his screaming innards had kept him alive more times than he'd cared to count.

"Fastmer, can I make a well-intentioned suggestion?" Algrin said in a kind voice.

"Of course."

"If you're that sure it's her, would it not be better if you just fired her? You already told me she's a troublemaker. And if there's one place in this whole Palace we can't put up with a troublemaker, it's in the King's Guard. You could be putting His Majesty's life at risk."

"I'm very well aware of that."

"You have a reason to let her go," Algrin pointed out. "No need to beat yourself up about it."

Fastmer sighed. "I know. And I'm not beating myself up about it, don't worry. It's just..."

"You can't bear the thought of letting it go when you think she's done something wrong."

"Call me old-fashioned, but I was raised to believe that people should face the consequences of their actions."

"She would lose her job. And we would take action behind the scenes, make sure she wasn't hired into any other sensitive security role." Algrin shrugged. "Those seem like serious consequences to me."

But not as serious as facing an actual criminal charge. "You might not feel so generous when I tell you what she did on Saturday night."

"Oh?"

"I couldn't take her with us to the party, so I left here, had her do the evening check of the residence floor." Fastmer brought out his phone, found the notification message. "I got this email just after seven," he said, turning the screen to show it to the security chief.

Algrin leaned forward, peering at the tiny text. He blinked in shock. "She tried to access the King's apartments."

Fastmer nodded. "That's what it looks like, yes. And I'm sure she would argue she was just checking the lock."

"But you wouldn't be inclined to agree."

"After everything else she's done?" Fastmer snorted. "I certainly would not."

Algrin let out a sigh. "I hate to say it, Fastmer, but this reinforces what I just said. Serve her the papers," he urged. "Get rid of her, quickly and cleanly, accept the fact you can't win them all."

"What about her phone records?" Fastmer asked, not quite ready to give up yet. "Where are we with those?"

"The warrant for those is still in the works. The process takes longer, and it's a totally different judge." Algrin smirked. "One who doesn't care about earning a knighthood, it seems. But we should have it by Wednesday. Thursday at the very latest."

So, not quite a write-off yet. "Let's wait and see what that turns up."

"And if it turns up nothing?"

"If it turns up nothing, I'll fire her then for sure."

"As the Head of Security, can I hold you to that?"

Fastmer gave a curt nod. It wasn't quite a write-off yet, but he also knew when to call it a day and get off the pot. "You certainly can."

Skoosh, spin, skoosh, spin.

The soothingly familiar sound of lubing a motorcycle chain. The soothingly _simple_ sound as well. After the strain of his 'chat' with the King, this was as much as his brain could manage. Easy stuff for the rest of the day—he would tackle the more difficult stuff tomorrow.

A shadow fell across the floor. Probably Wulf, trying to 'borrow' his torque wrench again. "Whatever you're about to ask for, the answer is no," Brendal said. "You need to fuck off and buy your own tools, stop trying to nick mine instead."

"I can assure you, I'm not trying to _nick_ anything," a depressingly familiar voice said.

Oh, just _fuck_ everyone in this Palace all the way to sneaking _fuck_ …

Sighing, Brendal set the can of lube on the ground and grabbed a cloth to wipe up a small puddle of lube. "Colwenna, could I ask a small favour, please?" he said without looking round.

"Of course."

"Is there any chance you could wear something noisy when you come to the garage?"

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Like a wee bell," Brendal explained. "So I can hear you coming and be ready for you." And by 'be ready for you', he meant 'not say something that puts me on your shitlist again'.

"I'm the head of the King's Household, Brendal," Colwenna said tartly. "Not a pasturing cow."

Hmm, yes, the bell might not have been the kindest suggestion. "Okay, well, could you maybe just be a little bit louder, then?" He pushed up from the ground, turning to face her. "Do something to let me know it's you that's sneaking up behind me?"

She gave him an indulgent smile. "I'm sure something could be arranged."

"Appreciate that." He grabbed the can of lube, stuck the lid on, put it back in its slot on the shelf. "So, what brings you down here today?"

"Gossip," Colwenna proclaimed.

"Oh, aye? What about?" And was she coming to ask for some, or to share some with him?

"Brendal, forgive me, but I'm going to be a little bit blunt."

As if she ever wasn't. "Go ahead. It won't bother me."

"What in the Great Hunter's name are you and Solwen Hamelmark doing?"

He should have realized this was coming. Once the King or the Princess Royal heard a piece of news, it was only a matter of time before Colwenna heard it as well. There was no point in denying her charge, or in trying to be coy. "You know about our little arrangement, then."

" _Arrangement_?" Colwenna repeated, eyes blazing in indignation. "Is _that_ what you call it?"

She seemed _awfully_ angry about it. "Well, isn't that what it is?" She might have had a bad start to her week; he tried a reassuring smile. "It was just me and Solwen at first, but now the King's in on it as well, so it's all good. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to…" Colwenna rubbed her brow. "Brendal, I've always considered myself an open-minded woman, but I'm not sure I'm open-minded enough for _this_."

That made absolutely no sense at all; why did being _open-minded_ matter? "Okay, sorry, but I think you've lost me now."

"Your _arrangement_ ," Colwenna said. "With Lady Solwen and the King. It's all _highly_ improper."

'Improper' wasn't the word he would use—he would go for 'ridiculous' or 'foolhardy' himself—but this _was_ the Meduseld Palace, so she was probably thinking first about how it could impact the Crown. "Don't you think that's taking it a wee bit too far? I mean, I know it's a _tiny_ bit naughty, but we're not really doing any harm."

"Not really doing any harm?" Colwenna repeated, voice rising and eyes blazing again. "I'm quite sure this counts as more than a tiny bit naughty." She stepped forward to stiffly whisper, "This is the kind of thing even _Fengel_ wouldn't have done."

Now, this was just getting silly. "Colwenna, no offense, but I've heard all the stories, and I'm pretty sure Fengel did things that were a lot worse than this." Like ~~raping~~ seducing women. And stealing things. And having people he didn't like killed. All far more sordid and more wicked than telling a few tiny white lies.

"Do you have _any_ idea, how much of a scandal this would trigger if it ever came out? The papers would have an absolute field day. We'd be dealing with the public fallout for _months_."

"I don't see why any of the papers would care," he said, starting to feel a little exasperated now. "It's not really anyone's business but ours." Not even hers, when it came down to it. "And like I said, it's not that big of a deal."

"Brendal, you're _sharing a girlfriend with the King_. I can assure you, it _is_ that big of a deal!"

Sharing a…

Oh, dear, _sweet_ fucking Gods…

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Colwenna," he started in the kindest tone he could find, "Sorry, but I think you might have gotten the wrong end of the stick."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nobody's sharing anything with anyone. The only person Lady Solwen is dating right now is the King."

"That's not what the Countess of Darkfald thinks."

He remembered that name—one of the guests at the party on Saturday night. "She's been telling people Solwen and I are dating, right?"

Colwenna nodded, less angry now, but still not completely disarmed. "And she heard it from Lady Solwen's father. Who doesn't strike me as the kind of man who would misunderstand something as simple as who his daughter's boyfriend his."

"He didn't misunderstand anything," Brendal explained.

"Okay, but that makes absolutely no sense at all." She threw up her hands. "Brendal, you'll excuse my language, but what the _fuck_ is going on?"

An f-word from the mighty Colwenna; he couldn't _wait_ to share this with Vonnal. "It's complicated."

"That's _exactly_ what the King said."

"Oh, so you've discussed this with him, then?"

"I certainly have. But he refused to answer my questions. Told me to come see you, because you would do a much better job of explaining the matter than he would."

That two-faced, devious royal _fuck_. "Did he really?"

"Yes, he did." She crossed her arms. "So, I'm warning you now, if the next words out of your mouth aren't a full explanation, excellent mechanic or not, I'm going to start the process to have you fired."

He knew better than to call her bluff. "Okay, so, here's the deal. It all started a few weeks ago. And it was because Lady Solwen didn't want to tell her father she's dating the King."

"Understandable," Colwenna said. "The fewer people who know, the less likely it is to reach the press."

"But her dad knew she was seeing _someone_. Problem is, he's really nosy, doesn't like being told to mind his own business, always wants to know exactly what other people are doing."

"He's a politician. Of course he does."

"Lady Solwen decided the only way to make him stop looking for an answer was to make him think he already knew what the answer was. _And_ to give him an answer he liked." Or, could live with, at least.

"Yes?"

" _I_ was the answer she gave him."

Colwenna sighed, finally connecting the dots. "She told him she's dating you. It's _all_ a fake. A cover story to hide the fact she's seeing the King."

He grinned. "Exactly."

"Oh, thank Bema," she said, shoulders slumping in relief. "For a moment there, I thought there was something truly appalling going on."

Should he point out—'truly appalling' would be all three of them sharing everyone all three ways?

Hmm, no, probably not…

"And _that's_ why you were invited to the Hamelmark house on Saturday," she said. "It had nothing to do with you being the earl's distant cousin. It's because he thinks you're Lady Solwen's new man."

No point in lying about it now. "I think so, aye. I mean, it might have _partly_ been because I'm his distant cousin, but I think it was mostly because he wanted to have a close up look."

"If I'd known that, I would have given you an even nicer bottle of wine. A Rinkastel Bright is fine for a guest, but a potential son-in-law should do even better."

"Colwenna…"

"I'm _kidding_ , Brendal."

"If you're saying that, does it mean you're not angry with me?"

"It most certainly does not. I'm absolutely _furious_ with you," she said. " _And_ with Lady Solwen as well. You're both supposed to be rational, intelligent people. What in Bema's name were you thinking?"

A question he'd been asking a lot since this morning himself. "We thought it was going to be minimal effort, that we would only need the simplest of cover stories. Neither of us had any idea it would get this out of hand this quickly."

"Brendal, you _do_ remember, what the first rule of planning is?"

"What's that?"

"No plan survives contact with the enemy?"

But who was the enemy—Solwen's dad, or the King? "In my defense, it's not something I've had to do a lot of. I _am_ only a bike mechanic."

"Yes, but Lady Solwen isn't. She's a politician's daughter. She should have known better."

"I'm sure she's found plenty of reasons to regret her decision."

Colwenna snorted. "She'll have even more when I speak to her about it later."

"Please go easy on her," he pleaded. "She didn't mean anything hurtful by it." A little buttering-up might help. "She was just trying to protect the King. And we both know how important that is."

She let out a sigh. "I'm quite sure she was. But whatever she meant, it's not coming to pass the way she hoped. Too many people know about it already. Which means you probably don't have a lot of time before it all comes apart at the seams."

"That's what the King said. He said we might need to be ready to have a strategic breakup. I think he's hoping to keep it going long enough to see us through his trip to the March."

"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "It's probably going to come apart much sooner than that."

"You think so?"

"I _know_ so." Another sigh. "The problem with telling lies like this is, the more people who hear the lie, the more scrutiny it attracts, the harder you have to work to keep it in place. And it's not just you that has to do that work," she added. "It's _everyone_ who's in on the secret."

"But that's only a handful of people. And they all know how to keep their mouths shut."

She cocked a brow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Who are the people who know who Lady Solwen's _really_ dating? Who's on the inside?"

He ran through the list, counting people on his fingers. "Lady Solwen and me. The King. You, obviously. Fastmer and Vonnal for sure, maybe Nedris as well. That driver lassie, Yelisan. She's a smart one, I'm pretty sure she's figured it out."

"Algrin as well, but you wouldn't have been aware of that. Who else?"

He racked his brain. "Lady Solwen's older brother. She told me he knows."

"And?"

As he realized who else, he let out a sigh. "Lord Elfhelm."

Drolly, she said, " _Now_ , do you understand what I mean?"

"He wouldn't tell anyone, surely?"

"Not deliberately, no. My experience is, he gets distracted, or tired, or has one too many drinks, or tries to be helpful, and _completely_ forgets he wasn't supposed to say the exciting thing he just said."

"To be fair, I've done that a few times myself."

"We all have. Telling a simple lie is easy. Maintaining a complex, ongoing lie is a much trickier beast that most people can't manage for more than a few days."

Which made him remember what else he'd learned on Saturday night. "Not when you're a Hamelmark, apparently."

"Sorry?"

Grinning, he said, "Did you know, Lady Solwen's grandmother gave her and her brother lying lessons?"

" _Lying lessons_?"

He nodded. "Because they're a political family, you see. She figured the one thing they should all know how to do well is lie."

Wearily, she said, "Why am I not _remotely_ surprised?"

"I was a little shocked when she told me. But by the end of the night, it didn't seem that shocking at all. Not compared to some of the other stuff that came up."

Her eyes lit up. "Does that mean you have good gossip about the dinner?"

He couldn't help but grin. "Colwenna, I have absolutely _fabulous_ gossip about the dinner."

"Okay, but how fabulous are we talking here?"

Hmm, how to answer that. Maybe with a quick review of the most shocking moments. "Okay, well, to start, her grandfather threatened to kill me." He would have to warn Lord Elfhelm to be ready for that. "Then her _father_ threatened to kill me." And maybe for that as well. "There was swearing. And shouting. And _potato-throwing_. At the _dinner table_ , no less."

"So much for my etiquette lessons."

"There was a story about a peacock killer. And one about someone fighting a duel. And did you know, Lady Solwen's great-grandfather once rode his horse into the Golden Hall?"

Sighing, she nodded. "I did, yes. The Hamelmarks have been a rather colourful bunch."

"There was more mead than you could shake a stick at." He leaned in to whisper, "And some less legal substances as well." Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. "There was bitching _galore_ about the Elgolls." He wouldn't mention Elfhelm's budding relationship with Erland for now. "And the _shit_ the Earl told me about someone called Lord Camelor?" He made a theatrical wincing sound. "I didn't know the man from Bema before, but I know _exactly_ what to think of him now."

"Stay out of the Earl of Camelor's way," she said firmly. "That's all you ever need to know."

"I got that, yes. Oh, and did you know, half the people in the Hall of Lords are apparently doing the dirty with each other? And that quite a few of their children probably don't have the fathers they think they have?" He didn't give her a chance to reply. "More whacky stories after that. Haradoc told us what he saw in the War, Lady Solwen told us what she saw when she worked in Lasgalen and Mordor. There was a long discussion about the best way to throw an axe." Thankfully, without a demo. "Then another about the best way to get rid of a body. Roddig won that one, I think. He's one of Lady Solwen's step-brothers."

"She has _step_ -brothers?"

"Two of them, aye. Fraternal twins, the same age as her. Her dad's first wife's sons." Was that right? He wasn't quite sure. "Shit-stirring rascals, the pair of them. I swear, just dealing with them took ten years off my life."

"It must have been quite a night."

"It certainly was. Oh, and did I mention, we closed it out with _rebel_ songs? And _football_ songs?" Mostly about beating Tronvene. "And a version of the national anthem where the chorus is about the King having sex with his horse?"

"I'm not sure I want to hear any more."

"Colwenna, you haven't heard even a _quarter_ of it. I'm only just getting warmed up."

She looked at her watch; she probably had an appointment to keep. "It's just occurred to me, it's almost time for my mid-morning break."

"Aye, mine too. I was about to head down to the canteen, grab a cuppa and a wee slice of cake."

"Could I buy you the cake?" she offered. "And maybe the cuppa as well? Then, you could tell me the rest of the story?"

A song for his snack; that seemed like a practical trade. "It might take a couple of cups," he warned. "There's quite a lot of story to tell."

"That's fine. I can spring for two," she said with a smile.

"Wulf!" he hollered out, making Colwenna jump a little.

Someone in the next bay over shouted back, "What?"

"I'm taking my break. I'll back in a wee while!" Probably best not to specify what 'a wee while' was.

"Nae bother, boss."

Duty done, Brendal waved to the door. "Lead the way."

Wulf walked to the end of the bay, just in time to see his boss and Colwenna vanish.

"The _hell_ is all that about?" he said to Freddan, gesturing at the door.

"The hell is all what about?" Freddan asked, keeping his eyes on his task.

"Brendal and Colwenna. They've been _awfully_ friendly for the last couple of months. She's down here all the bloody time."

Freddan grinned. "Maybe they're having a passionate fling."

"Don't be fucking daft." The mere thought made Wulf shudder. "She's old enough to be his mum."

"So, maybe he's into older women." Freddan stretched to grab a tool. "She's very attractive for her age. _And_ she's really close to the King. You think about it, she wouldn't be a bad catch at all."

Which made Wulf wonder if Freddan had ideas about her as well. At least Freddan was the right age. "I thought he was getting his leg over with that other woman."

"Which other woman?"

"The younger one with the classic bike." And the fantastic tits. "The Shadowfax. I thought Brendal was dating her."

"I've no idea. Not something I pay a lot of attention to. You'd have to ask him."

"If it's all the same, I'd rather not." Brendal could be tetchy sometimes; the question probably wouldn't go down well.

Freddan shrugged. "Guess you'll just have to live with not knowing, then, won't you?"


	84. Chapter 84

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solwen and Eomer have their next date. Colwenna has some advice for the couple. Solwen then has some advice for her dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is mild smut in this chapter...

Everything was just as before; her evening dates with Eomer were settling into a pleasant routine.

Yelisan collected her at the top of the drive, on time almost to the second. "Good evening, milady," she said as Solwen climbed in. "Nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you again, too." Especially as Yelisan seemed to be back to her usual, sociable self—the security problems she'd mentioned last week must have been resolved. Did that mean they'd located the spy? She made a note to check with Eomer later. "How was your Solstice weekend?" Solwen asked as the car pulled away.

"Was good. My parents hosted a big family dinner." Yelisan's smile was shy. "I introduced them to my girlfriend."

Brendal hadn't been the only one running the 'meet the parents' gauntlet, then. Although, Yelisan's girlfriend would have been running the gauntlet for real. "And how did that go?"

"I _think_ they liked her? But my parents aren't the most demonstrative of people, so I'm not really sure."

Solwen thought of her grandpa's gravedigging threat. "If it's any consolation, the last time I brought a guy home for dinner, both my grandfather _and_ my father threatened to kill him if he did anything wrong."

"Really?"

Solwen nodded. "So, trust me, introverted parents are better. And you strike me as having good taste, so I'm sure they liked your girlfriend just fine."

Colwenna was waiting in the garage. The guard with her was a young woman tonight—the one who'd been at the door to the King's apartments on her last visit. Solwen pointed her out. "The guard with Colwenna, this is the third time I've seen her, but I don't think anyone's ever mentioned her name."

"That's Nedris," Yelisan said, bringing the car to a stop. "She's nice. A little shy, quite serious, everyone says she's really good at her job." She leaned over to whisper, "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I think she has a thing for Vonnal."

Vonnal being the guard she'd met last week—the Stonehawk who could be an underwear model in his spare time. "Can't say I blame her. He's rather easy on the eyes, well worth having a wee thing for." Solwen grinned. "But don't tell anyone I said that either." And absolutely _not_ the King.

"My lips are sealed."

Solwen pulled the handle to let herself out. "Will it be you again when I leave?"

"It should be, yes."

"I'll see you later, then."

"Have a lovely night," Yelisan said.

"You too." Or, whatever kind of night a driver could have when they had to sit somewhere and wait for four hours...

"Lady Solwen, good evening," Colwenna said with a smile, coming to meet her at the car door. "Lovely to see you again." She gestured at Solwen's outfit—a pretty top she'd found at the back of a drawer, matched to a floaty skirt she'd borrowed from Nediriel in a last minute panic. A wraparound shawl completed the look. "You look very nice tonight."

"Thank you," Solwen said as she closed the door, once again thanking the Gods for giving her such a stylish stepmother. Not to mention a stepmother who was more or less the same size. "Lovely to see you again, too." Trying not to grin, she held out the paper bag with the shirt. A courier had delivered it to her three hours before; all she'd had to do was remove the shipping label. "This is for you. That little task you asked me to take care of."

Smiling, Colwenna took the bag. She parted the handles to peer inside; her smile dropped, she let out a sigh. "You bought a replacement shirt," she stated.

"I did, yes. I should have fixed the one you sent me, I know, but I'm not very good with a needle." Or with an ironing board, for that matter. She knew how to use one, but ironing was near the top of her 'life's too short for this bullshit' list, so she much preferred to just buy clothes that didn't need to be ironed at all. "This seemed the easiest solution."

"Only people who grow up with money think buying a brand new replacement is the easiest solution."

A comment only someone who _hadn't_ grown up with money would make. But a valid comment, nonetheless. "I view it more as knowing from the beginning I would do such a terrible job, I would end up having to buy a new one anyway." Solwen shrugged. "So, think of it as being efficient."

"Efficient, of course," Colwenna said, a little tartly. "How could I _ever_ not have considered that?" Eyes warm with humour, she waved to the door. "The King will be waiting. Shall we head up?"

"How was your Solstice weekend?" Solwen asked as they waited for the elevator to arrive.

"It was very nice," Colwenna said. "Quiet for once. No party at the Palace this year, so just a simple dinner for me and a friend."

"I understand the King went to a party at the Elgolls." She wondered if the conversation there had been as colourful as the one at their house, if the Earl and Countess of Elgoll had talked shit about the Landed as much as the Earl and Countess of Hamelmark had.

"That's right." The elevator arrived; Colwenna waved her in, stepped in behind, held her card to the security panel. "And the Princess Royal as well."

"I'm sure it was quite a night."

"They didn't come home until just after two, and the Princess Royal was a little under the weather the morning after, so yes, I'm quite sure it was." Colwenna's mouth quirked. "But Brendal tells me your family dinner was a rather _stimulating_ occasion as well."

Brendal had been gossiping, then; she should have expected that. She could just picture the scene in her head—him and Colwenna tucked away in a corner of the canteen, well out of listening range, each with a mug of tea in their hand, whispering like a pair of old women. "Part of me's dying to know what he told you, but the other part is too scared to ask."

"He told me about the rebel songs." In a less approving tone, Colwenna added, "And about a _spicier_ version of the national anthem?"

The version with the horse-fucking chorus, yes. But someone as worldly and well-informed as Colwenna surely must have heard it already? "We covered both of those," Solwen admitted. "And a rather rousing rendition of 'Bring on the Grunts in Green' as well."

Nedris made a sound that was almost a snort. Was the guard from Isendale, then? Nobody hated Tronvene green quite as much as a Rovers supporter did. Smiling to put her at ease, Solwen turned the young woman's way. "It's Nedris, isn't it?"

"It is, milady, yes," Nedris said with a soft smile. And an accent that was almost the same as Solwen's own. "Very nice to meet you."

"Very nice to meet you, too. You'll be from Isendale, I think."

Nedris nodded. "From Oswich, milady."

A nice, respectable part of town. Not as nice as Seigoth, of course, but as Darion had pointed out, not a lot of places in the March were. Seigoth had _serious_ money. Although, even Seigoth's wealth was nothing compared to what Edoras had. "I'm curious, does that mean you'll be joining the King on his Midsummer trip?"

Nedris's gaze flicked to Colwenna, who nodded and said, "It's all well, Lieutenant. You can answer Lady Solwen's question. You won't be giving any secrets away."

"I will be, yes," said Nedris. "I'm actually looking forward to it. I don't get home very often these days. I'm hoping to see my family a bit while I'm there."

"That shouldn't be too hard to arrange." She would bug Eomer about it herself, make sure everyone he was taking with him got some decent time off.

The elevator ground to a halt. They took the same route as before, past the row of royal portraits again. They seemed a little disapproving tonight, as if the dearly departed kings somehow knew what she and Eomer had done on their precious Celebrant Desk. Too bad for them; it wasn't her fault they'd never been creative enough to try the same thing themselves.

Nedris peeled off at the main door, joining another guard Solwen didn't think she'd seen before—young, male, short and stocky, with colouring that told her he had Haradish genes somewhere in his family tree.

Colwenna led her into the reception hall—not so beautifully bathed in light tonight, since the sun had been hidden all day behind a thick layer of clouds—then through the semi-public rooms beyond, into the safety of the King's inner suite. There was nobody in the sitting room, but as always, a nearby table had been set with various snacks and drinks.

Eomer emerged from one of the doors she hadn't been through yet, tugging the hem of a t-shirt into place. A rather flattering one at that, paired with an equally flattering pair of jeans—he looked so good she wanted to strip him naked right there and then. He smiled as he saw her, making her innards soften then burst into flames. The desk might be in for a second visit tonight. And maybe his coffee table as well...

Colwenna cleared her throat, cutting off whatever Eomer had been about to say. "Before I leave you to enjoy your night, there's something I'd like to discuss."

Uh oh. This sounded bad.

"Sure. What's up?" Eomer said.

"It's about what Brendal told me this morning."

Eomer threw up his arms in disgust. "Welp, there goes my special surprise."

"What surprise?" Solwen asked, adrenaline spiking, looking from the King to Colwenna. "What is it? What's going on?"

Eomer opened his mouth to reply. "You be quiet for a moment," Colwenna said, giving him an admonishing glare. "Let me say the bit I need to say. You can tell her the rest when I'm done."

"Coward," Eomer muttered.

"You told me to speak to Brendal instead of explaining the situation to me yourself," Colwenna shot back, confusing Solwen even further. "If I'm a coward, I'm in bloody good company."

Eomer gave a sheepish shrug. "I'll maybe let you off with that."

"Not to sound rude, but could someone please answer my question?" Solwen pleaded. "What on earth is this all about?"

Colwenna gave her a calming smile. "Like I said, it's about what Brendal told me this morning." She clasped her hands in front of her stomach. "About why he was really invited to your house for dinner on Saturday night, and who your dad really thinks he is."

Solwen's innards seized in fear. Her secret was out; Colwenna knew about her and Brendal's little 'arrangement'. And Holy Eru, did that mean Eomer knew about it as well? She jerked round, screaming inside, explanations at the ready, expecting Eomer to be angry and shocked, to demand to know what Colwenna was talking about. But all she saw was teasing amusement. What the _fuck_ was he playing at now?

Eomer started to speak; Colwenna held up a hand to hush him again. "I'm not finished yet." Her gaze came back to Solwen. "Don't worry, the King knows about it as well, so I haven't just dropped a massive bombshell on him. And whatever he tries to tell you once I've left"—Colwenna raised a brow at Eomer, who huffed and rolled his eyes back—"he's not _remotely_ angry about it. So, if he tries to pile on you for what you did, just tell him to shut his face and pile on him right back."

Permission to abuse the King. And from his almost-mother, no less. "I, uh, thank you, I'll keep that in mind," Solwen said.

Colwenna continued. "I was furious when I found out, it made me wonder how foolish you could possibly be, but after talking to Brendal, I understand why you did what you did, and I know you didn't mean any harm." She spoke to the King next, her tone a little more acidic. "And I know you had some fun this morning at Brendal's expense, which I would absolutely kick your arse for if you hadn't given him a lovely pay rise at the same time."

" _And_ a lovely bonus," Eomer said, a little defensive. "So, two nice things. Not just one."

"Yes, but you could just have done the nice things without pulling a prank on him, couldn't you?" Colwenna didn't wait for an answer. "So, I know Brendal's been helping you out. I expected that, the two of us haven't always seen eye to eye, but I know he's a good man with a good heart. But I also know your scheme's already coming apart." She looked to Solwen again. "Your dad has shared your relationship news with a few people. And those people have shared it with some other people." She waved at Eomer. "Including the Princess Royal and the King."

The Princess Royal, oh Gods...

"I never intended for it to go this far," Solwen said, looking from Eomer to Colwenna and back, trying to make them understand, why she'd made the decisions she had. "I thought I could keep it simple, just tell my family who I was dating and leave it at that. I never for a single moment expected my dad to take an interest in Brendal, much less invite him to dinner." In hindsight, she should have, really, knowing what a shit-stirring busy-body he was. "If I'd known it would get so out of hand so quickly, I would never have done it in the first place. I would have found another solution."

"I know that," Colwenna said with another kind smile. "And I know you always intended for your plan to have an expiry date. But if I were you, I'd let that date be sooner rather than later."

"I can't tell my dad who I'm really seeing," Solwen said. She turned to Eomer, pleading. "I just can't. Not yet."

"Don't worry, we'll figure something out," he said, with the unassailable confidence of a man who heard 'yes' far more often than he heard 'no', and who had a small army of people to solve his problems for him. He grabbed her hand to squeeze it. "I'm sure it'll all be fine, even if you have to tell him the truth."

"You say that, but you don't know how annoying my father can be."

Colwenna snorted. "He threatened to have Brendal killed. I'm beginning to get an idea."

"Your dad threatened to have Brendal killed?" Eomer repeated, astonished. "Like, not a joke? An _actual_ , serious threat?"

"And her grandfather as well," Colwenna added. "Although, it sounds as if he was a tiny bit more subtle. Didn't say it outright, just told Brendal he used to dig graves for a living."

"Okay, that's actually quite funny." Eomer's eyes lit up. "Will he do that to me when I meet him?" he asked with almost childish glee. "Tell me he has a shotgun and a shovel? Remind me I have a nice life, and it would be a shame if something happened to it?"

"Only if you ask him nicely." Solwen rubbed her brow, wishing she'd just stayed home for the night. No amount of fantastic sex was worth this level of humiliation. Speaking of which. "Do I need to apologize to anyone?" she quietly asked. "Because if I do, I'm more than happy to grovel. I know I've made a total fool of myself."

Colwenna shook her head. "No apologies necessary. And no grovelling necessary," she added, shooting the King a warning glare, forcing him to give up whatever clever remark he'd been about to make. "I agree, it wasn't the smartest thing you've ever done, but like I said, I know you did it with good intentions. If you'd had any malicious intentions, you wouldn't have made it through the front gate." She smiled and held her hands wide, indicating her speech was done. "Okay, that's my piece. I've said what I wanted to say. I'll leave the two of you to mull it over from here. Call if you need me, enjoy the rest of your night." With a polite nod to each of them, she disappeared out the door.

Solwen couldn't look the King in the eye; her whole body was cringing in shame. She wanted a giant eagle to plunge through the roof, carry her off, drop her into the fiery, molten heart of Mount Doom. It couldn't possibly be any more painful than having to stand here in front of the King and admit to telling a huge, whopping lie.

"I can't believe you tried to two-time me," Eomer said in a wounded tone. "And with my own bike mechanic, no less. That's the part that hurts the most, you know. That you chose someone so close to home. Lied to and cheated on me, right under my bloody nose." He held his hand against his heart. "Gets me _right_ here."

Shame turned to exasperation. "Anyone ever told you, what an absolutely terrible person you are?" Not that she currently felt like a wonderful person herself. What a pig's breakfast she'd made of this whole mess. She should _never_ have started the lie. She should just have told her dad the truth. Or, even better, put her foot down about him minding his business, refused to tell him anything at all.

"If it's any consolation, Brendal told me pretty much the same thing this morning."

"It's not just me who thinks you're being an arse, then, good." She remembered what Colwenna had said. "Did you really pull a prank on him?"

"I certainly did." He pulled a bottle of wine from the cooler to fill two waiting glasses. "Confronted him in the garage just after eight, I don't think he'd even had his morning cup of tea yet, made him think I was accusing him of dating you behind my back." He handed one of the glasses to her. "Best acting work I've ever done. Someone should nominate me for an award."

Nominate him, let him win, deliver the bloody thing by ramming it up his royal behind. _Without_ the benefit of lube. "Colwenna should have kicked your arse, even if you gave him a pay rise. Just to teach you a lesson."

"Not just a pay rise. A bonus as well. Don't forget that."

Was it a bonus, or a 'please keep quiet about this' payment? Not that it really mattered. "You realize he's probably going to have to use the bonus to pay for the therapy to treat the PTSD you probably caused?" Poor Brendal. He was such a nice guy. And he'd only ever been trying to help. She would have to buy him the other half of that case of Dunharrow. And maybe let him borrow her bike a few more times as well.

"It's fine," Eomer said. "It wasn't that mean. Just a few minutes of teasing with a couple of fake threats on top." He grabbed a mini-quiche from the tray. " _And_ I let him take his revenge."

"Really? How?"

"I let him tell me exactly what he thought of me." He made a face, half-puzzled, half-offended. "Can you believe he used the c-word on me?"

Given Brendal was from the March, and how the teasing must have made him feel, yes, she absolutely could. "You're lucky he was so polite. He could have done something worse."

"I don't think you can say anything less polite than the c-word."

"Say, no. But he could have skipped the verbal response and just punched you in the balls instead."

"Very true, yes." He smirked. "I'm sure that would have made Fastmer's day. If he'd had to put Brendal in a headlock for trying to take a swing at me."

Never mind day—it would probably have made his whole week...

"So, what are we going to do?" she asked. "With the Brendal cover story, I mean. Colwenna thinks it's about to run out of steam, and I'm inclined to agree. I don't know about you, but I'd much rather end it in my own way and on my own terms. The last thing I want is for it to blow up on us when we're not looking and make an even bigger mess."

"Let's not worry about that tonight. Tonight is for us. We can strategize later." Smiling, he raised his glass. "What should we drink to?"

Tonight, the answer was easy. "How about, to people who don't know when to keep their mouths shut?"

"Are you including yourself in that?"

"I'm putting myself right at the top of the bloody list." With her dad a very close second. She was going to have a word with him later, find out who the hell he'd been blabbing to at work.

He tapped his glass to hers then leaned in to murmur, "Am I allowed to say, I quite like it when you don't keep your mouth shut?" He pressed a warm kiss to the mouth in question. "You do such lovely things with it."

Instantly, all thoughts of their 'strategy problem' vanished. "Hmm, yes, I do, now, don't I?" she murmured, pushing up to kiss him back. "But I can't think of a single reason why you would need to tell me that right now."

"It's just, one of the things you do with your mouth is extremely relaxing." He nipped at her ear; making her whole body shiver. "More effective than any massage I've ever had. Than any _drug_ I've ever had."

"Are you in the habit of taking drugs to help you relax?" she asked, thinking of Erland's weed-based approach.

"Occasionally, when I'm having trouble sleeping, yes. Nothing dangerous, though. Just the usual over-the-counter stuff."

"Are you having trouble sleeping right now?"

"Not at all, no. Sleeping like the proverbial log." He planted a kiss on her collar bone. "Especially since I got rid of my sling."

"Then, you obviously don't need my assistance, do you?"

He pulled away, frowning, realizing he might have said the wrong thing. "Would it help if I told you I had an extremely stressful start to the day?"

"Maybe."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, searching her mouth with his tongue. "It was terrible," he murmured. "I ended up shouting at people. You wouldn't believe how draining it was."

Shouting at people? That didn't sound good. He might actually be feeling stressed. She could help with that for sure, but she was still going to make him sing for his supper. "You probably shouldn't do anything strenuous, then. You should maybe get some rest instead."

He pulled away, heaving a sigh. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"I'm never easy."

"You were pretty easy last Thursday night."

"One of us had to be," she said, thinking of all the objections he'd raised on the night. "If I'd left setting the pace to you, we would maybe have made it to holding hands by the end of the night."

"I was perfectly happy to do whatever you wanted," he said. "I just didn't want to do it on the Celebrant Desk."

"You're not still angry about that, are you?"

"Not angry, no." He smiled as he made a pinching motion. "But I _do_ feel a tiny bit guilty."

"Why?"

"We _were_ a little disrespectful."

This wouldn't be the right time to tell him the fantasies she'd had about them having sex on the throne. "I don't remember you complaining too much about it at the time."

"That's because I was too busy focusing on what you were doing with my dick to worry about how inappropriate we were being."

"Right, yes, of course." She took a slow sip of her wine. "Remind me again, was that the part where I used my hand?" She slipped two fingers into his belt, gently pulling him towards her. Smiling coyly, she added, "Or did you mean the part where I used my mouth?"

Instantly, the teasing mood broke. Glasses were (safely) abandoned, their mouths met again, their bodies pressed into each other. Hands scrabbled at buttons and zips, he lost his belt and shoes, she lost her handbag and shawl. His t-shirt came off, her panties came down, both were discarded with total, utter abandon. He grabbed her under the ass, lifted her onto a table, pushed himself between her legs. She pressed her hand to his chest, lightly holding him away. "I was planning to take my time tonight."

"Why?" he asked, as if she'd just suggested they run naked through Riddermark Square.

"I wanted to woo you first. Not be quite as bold as last week."

He shook his head. "I don't need to be wooed."

"What, not even a little?"

He snapped the button on his jeans, yanked down the zip, grabbed her hand and pushed it inside. No encouragement needed here; he was already as hard as a post. "Does that feel like it needs to be wooed?" he asked.

She shook her head. "You'll forgive my Marcher language, but it feels like it needs to be fucked." She slipped her free hand around his neck, pulling his lips onto hers. "Or sucked. Whatever you want."

"That's what I was thinking, yes." His hand moved under her skirt, a finger lightly brushed against her. She grasped out a groan, her whole abdomen tensed in pleasure. Showing a wicked grin, he added, "And correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think Her Ladyship needs to be wooed either."

No, she certainly did not.

He grabbed her behind the knees, but only to wrap her legs around his waist. He dipped his head against her shoulder. "Hold on," he said. "Put your arms around my neck."

"Where are we going?" she asked as he grabbed her under the ass again to lift her off the table. Not too far, she hoped—he was a pretty strong guy, but she wasn't the smallest or lightest of women.

"Bedroom." Nowhere terribly kinky, then. "Bed's the perfect height."

For what, she was about to find out...

It was rather a marvellous sight—a sight any tabloid paper would pay a small fortune to see.

His Blessed Majesty, Eomer King, King of Rohan, Duke of the Mark, First Son of the House of Eorl, sprawled on a magnificent bed, sweating slightly, breathing deeply, legs dangling over the edge, as naked as the day he was born.

Except for his socks. Somehow, his socks had stayed on.

Not that she was any better, of course. The only thing she hadn't lost were here shoes—the ankle clasp had kept them in place through all their exertions. A good thing too; at one point, the extra height had come in handy.

She was absolutely, utterly sated; she couldn't remember when she'd last been so thoroughly and so pleasantly used. Every muscle between her neck and her knees was sore. But sore in a good way—not a strain so much as a warm, pulsing, satisfied glow. Full marks to His Majesty's sexual technique there.

She rolled over onto her side, pushed up to lean in and kiss him. "Still alive in there?" she asked.

"Uh huh," was all he managed to say.

"Did you enjoy that?"

"Uh huh."

"Was it suitably relaxing?"

He let out a satisfied sigh. "Extremely."

She traced a finger over his stomach, enjoying the slight tensing of muscles the movement induced. He really did have lovely abs. "So, the stress from the start of the day has gone?"

"Almost." He smirked. "But we might need to do it again. Just to be absolutely sure."

She poked him hard, making him grunt. "His Blessed Majesty isn't ready to do it again." She was, but he would need some time to recover. One of the many perils of being a man.

"That's the aging process for you," he said, lifting his head to cast a disgruntled glare at his body. "Should have met me when I was twenty instead. Could have gone four times in an hour back then."

But probably not for forty minutes each time. "Except, when you were twenty, I was fourteen."

He wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, maybe not, then." He flopped back, sighing. "Holy Bema, that was good."

"A King could get used to it, right?"

"He certainly could."

She slipped a leg over his hips, lightly straddling him at the waist, and leaned down to give him a gentle kiss, letting her hair fall over his face. "A Lady could get used to it as well," she murmured, angling her hips to grind against him a little.

"I don't think a lady does what you just did."

She poked him again. "I meant in the sense of being an earl's daughter. My title."

He grinned. "Right, yes. Forgot about that." His grin slipped to a pensive frown, making her freeze in place.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think we've tried it in this position yet." He waved between them. "With you on top, I mean."

"We haven't, no." Just about every other possible way, but never with her in charge and setting the pace.

"Should try it later, then."

"I'm ready to give it a go as soon as you are."

He pushed up to a sitting position, so suddenly she almost fell backwards off the bed. "You know what would really help me recover?" he said, grabbing her to keep her steady.

"What's that?"

"Something to eat."

Eru and the Maiar save her; if it wasn't one appetite, it was the other. "You have to feed the beast before you can feed the beast, right?"

"I wouldn't put it quite as indelicately as that, but yes."

"Fine," she said. "Let's go and get you fed, then."

She climbed off him, going in search of her abandoned clothes. She found her bra beside the bed, picked it up, started to fasten it on, threw it on a chair instead. There was no point; it would just come off again later. She found her top and skirt, and searched for her panties until she remembered they were somewhere next door.

Top in hand, she wandered through to the sitting room, scanned around, found her panties hanging over a lamp. Did that count as great or terrible aim? Grinning, she grabbed them to pull them on. His t-shirt was on the floor. She started to shout to let him know, changed her mind, threw her own shirt on the couch and pulled his over her head. It was nice and loose, and hung to just below her butt. She didn't bother with her skirt—it was warm enough she didn't need it, and it would just face the same fate as her bra.

He wandered into the sitting room, looking around as he zipped up his jeans. "Any idea where my—" He sighed as he saw her. "I would ask for it back, but I think I know what you're going to say."

"I'm sure you can find another." This one belonged to her now. Just like the dress shirt she'd ruined last week.

He disappeared, reappeared a few moments later wearing another tee. She tried not to grin as he went straight to the table to pile some food on a plate. Men and their bottomless stomachs; he must have eaten at dinner time—where the hell did the food even go? "Better?" she asked once he'd worked through a few snacks.

He nodded. "Much better, yes."

She found her glass, gulped a mouthful of her wine; the temperature made her wince. "Is there somewhere I can pour this way?" she asked. "It's too warm for my taste buds now."

He pointed to a small door at the far end of the room. "There's a sink through there."

"What about yours?" she asked gesturing at his glass.

"I'm fine." He grabbed it to take a swig. "I prefer it chilled, but it doesn't bother me too much if it isn't."

To her surprise, the room behind the door was a compact kitchen, equipped with a fridge, a microwave, a toaster, a kettle and a coffee machine. The fridge was full of wine, pudding cups and beer; the cupboards were full of various snacks, some healthy, some decidedly not. Including a box full of fun-sized bags of giant gummy balrogs, of all things.

The things one learned about one's King...

"I'm a little surprised you even have this," she called out as she emptied her glass. "The kitchen, I mean."

"Why's that?" he called back.

"This is the Meduseld Palace." She peeked in a lower cupboard, found a stack of bowls and plates. "Don't you have a bunch of people to bring stuff to you when you need it?"

"I do, yes." He appeared at the door, munching on a spicy chicken stick. "But I like being able to do the simple things myself. Especially after hours. There's always someone on standby for me through the night, but I hate making people get out of bed."

"That's very considerate of you."

"I suppose so." He finished the chicken, dropped the stick in a nearby bin. "But it's also because I don't want my employees to know when I'm eating ice cream in bed."

She grinned at the image. And interesting, that he thought of the people who worked in the palace, not as servants, but as employees. That was a healthy mindset for a monarch to have. "How often do you do that?"

"Not very often. Just when I've had a terrible day."

"You had a terrible day today." Or a terrible start-of-day, at least.

Smiling softly, he leaned in to kiss her. "Yes, but I found a better solution for today's stress than drowning myself in ice cream, didn't I?"

"You think sex with me is better than ice cream?" she asked when he broke away. "I'm flattered."

"Ice cream, yes. But better than a cold beer?" He made a pained face. "I might have to think about that." He turned to head back to the table.

She followed behind him, playing along. "Depends on the beer, though, right?"

"Of course."

"I mean, I'd throw you over in a heartbeat for a cold pint of Golden Mane after a four hour ride on a hot summer's day."

He grabbed a cheesy pastry stick. "That's valid."

"But I'd rather have sex with both of the Camelor brothers at the same time than drink so much as a thimble-full of Hornburg Red."

"Not your favourite beer, then?"

"It's a trauma memory thing," she said, grabbing the wine from the cooler to refill her glass. "The first alcohol I ever had a bad experience with."

"What age were you?"

"Sixteen," she said. "And before you criticize my family for letting me drink when I was underage, they didn't know what I was doing. It was at my brother's coming-of-age party, there was booze everywhere, nobody even realized I'd pilfered a bottle."

"Until it made a shocking reappearance, I'm guessing."

"Puked it all over my grandpa's shoes." The memory still made her ears burn; the follies of her misspent youth. "He took it well at the time, got me cleaned up, put me to bed, but the weekend after, he made me scrub the garage floor."

"As punishments go, that doesn't sound too bad."

"Yeah, except, it was a four car garage," she added, making him wince.

"It was something called Ouzarath for me." He wrinkled his nose. "An elvish liqueur, of all things. Made from some kind of medicinal herb. You ever tried it?"

She nodded. "A couple of times, when I was in Lasgalen. Can't say I'm a huge fan."

"I drank so much of the bloody stuff, the next morning, I could smell it coming out of my skin."

And out of various other places no doubt. "Can't imagine that was a pleasant experience." She set her glass down on a side table, grabbed a plate, gathered up a small pile of snacks. He wasn't the only one who needed to refuel and recharge.

"The worst hangover I've ever had. Haven't touched the stuff since." He pinched a bacon bite from her plate, earning the dirtiest of her dirty glares. "For a few years after, Colwenna used it to keep me in line, threatened to spray me with it if I didn't do what I was told."

That seemed fair; if aversion training worked for cats, it should work for men as well. "I'm assuming you don't give her too much cause to spritz you these days."

"I try my best not to." He sighed. "But I definitely gave her one this morning."

This must be something to do with his terrible start to the day. "Was she the one you shouted at?"

"Sorry?"

She put her plate down. "It's just, earlier, when you talked about having a terrible start to your day, you told me you'd shouted at someone."

"That's right." He reclaimed his glass, took a quick gulp of his wine, nodded curtly. "Colwenna was one of the people I shouted at, yes."

"One of?"

"My sister, a little bit. And someone called Fenbrand as well. He got the worst of it."

She remembered that name. Fenbrand was his Senior Private Secretary—the one who'd responded to her letter about the Ban. Why on earth had Eomer been shouting at him? Had Fenbrand taken his unctuous boot-licking too far? "So, um, am I allowed to ask what happened that made you shout at them?" His jaw tightened, quickly, she added, "Only if you're in the mood to talk about it, of course. If you're not, feel free to tell me to mind my own business."

"You honestly don't want to know." He grabbed another pastry stick, moved into the living room to flop onto one of the couches—the comfortable, well-padded one they'd done the dirty on the week before.

She claimed the seat beside him. "Is it something confidential? Some government thing you can't tell me?"

"Nothing like that, no." He let out a quiet sigh. "Just... something really annoying. Relating to the big party we're having in August," he said.

The oath anniversary thing; she'd heard about it from her dad. By all accounts, it was going to be a massive event—maybe the biggest the Meduseld Palace had ever staged. "It sounds as if it's going to be quite a night," she said. "It must be causing all kinds of stress."

"It is."

He was obviously reluctant to talk, but he hadn't shut her down completely. Should she keep pushing, or change the subject and leave it alone? A middle path might work best. She laid a hand on his arm. "I know it's probably silly to ask, but is there anything I can do to help?"

"Depends. Can you come up with an excuse to just cancel the whole bloody thing?"

She probably could, but not in a way that would do anything good for diplomatic relations. "That bad?"

"That bad, yeah." He took a vicious bite of the stick. "It's about the guest list," he said. "Who's on it that I don't really want to be on it."

Thinking back on how he'd reacted to some of her comments at their first lunch, she had a half-decent idea of which people he meant. "By any chance, are you talking about the Lasgalen contingent?"

"What on earth makes you say that?"

"It's just, the way you react whenever the subject of Lasgalen comes up, I get the feeling it's a country you don't really like."

"You're right, it isn't." He made no attempt to clarify why. "But it's not the guests from Lasgalen I'm worried about. Or, not _just_ them, rather." He finished his stick, washed it down with a mouthful of wine. "It's the guests from Dol Amroth as well."

She'd lived there for almost six months; there was only one group of people in the whole city who would be invited to something as important as a formal state event. "Can I assume you mean Prince Imrahil and his wife?"

"You know who he is?"

"I do, yes." She drew her feet up underneath her, using the motion to shuffle a little closer to him. "Remember I told you I worked in Dol Amroth for a while?"

"Right, yes, I forgot about that."

"I worked for a private investment bank. The kind of place that only takes customers with serious money."

"Lemme guess. Prince Imrahil was one of those customers?"

"The biggest." She leaned over to whisper, "You wouldn't believe how rich he is."

"Stinking, I assume?"

"Let's just say, he makes the Earl of Elgoll look as if he's on minimum wage."

"That's the Gondorian High Families for you. The whole lot of them are _rolling_ in it. I assume you didn't ever meet him?"

"Bema, no," she scoffed. "He was the ruling Prince of Dol Amroth, I was just some foreign girl who worked in the Settlements team. They wouldn't have let me bring him the mithril spoon to stir his handmade artisanal coffee, much less be in a meeting with him."

"What about the rest of the family?" he asked in a strange tone—curious but cautious at the same time, as if he wanted to hear her answer, but didn't. "You ever meet any of them?"

"Meet them, never, no. But I used to see them out on the town from time to time. Especially the middle son. He's a bit of a party animal."

"Erchirion."

"That's him, yes. He's supposed to be the nicest of the three sons, but he gets himself in all kinds of trouble." From which his indulgent father always saved him, of course. "And the daughter as well. I saw her a couple of times, out and about with the bright and beautiful people."

"Lothiriel."

"That's her, yes." Grinning, she leaned in again. "Rumour has it, she's a bit of a daddy's girl, awfully good at spending his money." Traits she shared with the Gondorian princess a little—the first far more so than the second. She might be a daddy's girl as well, but financially, she mostly stood on her own two feet.

"She's, uh, she's actually the one who's causing the trouble," he said.

"How so?"

He frowned, hesitated, then said, "The two of us, we, um, we have a _history_ of sorts, I think would be the best way to put it."

They must have dated. And if he was this reluctant to talk about it, it obviously hadn't ended well. Cautiously, she asked, "How long ago was that?"

"Eight years," he said. "A few months after I came to the throne."

"That's quite a long time ago," was all she could think of to say.

"Not long enough," he muttered, swigging another mouthful of wine. "I could happily have gone my whole life without ever seeing her again."

It had ended catastrophically, then. "It sounds as if you had a bad breakup."

"Not a breakup, no. We, um, we actually weren't dating as such."

"But you said you had a history with her." Maybe they'd just hooked up for sex. Although, that wasn't something High Family daughters really did. Not before they were married, at least. After, absolutely, yes.

"It's complicated." He rose from the couch, grabbed the bottle from the cooler, came back to top up both of their glasses. "And if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Of course."

He flopped back onto the couch, forcing a smile, laying a hand on her knee. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put such a downer on the conversation. It's just been a tough day."

"What else should we talk about then?"

"Anything. You decide."

One topic immediately came to mind. "Have you made any progress with finding your spy?"

"Not yet, no." He extended his feet to rest them on the table. "To be honest, I've left it to my security people. I don't have the time or inclination to worry about it myself right now. They told me they would update me as soon as they had some news."

"But no news yet."

"No."

"Oh, and speaking of bad news, you'll never guess what happened to my dad last week?"

"I'm not sure I want to ask."

"He got hate mail," she said. "On Friday morning. A handwritten note calling him a traitor."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Delivered right to the house. I found it on the front mat."

His expression darkened. "Okay, but that's a problem, if they delivered it right to your house. A serious security risk. It means they're not afraid to get close, which is a message all on its own. You need to have someone look into that for you."

"Don't worry, it's all in hand. My dad spoke to the Commandant of the Hall, he's going to contact someone in the Parliamentary Protection Group for advice."

"Okay, good." He let out a light snort. "I guess whoever left the note really didn't like his speech."

She giggled a little. "Strange, that, isn't it? I can't for the life of me imagine why."

"It, uh, it was the subject of a rather _intense_ discussion at our dinner party on Saturday night. Your dad's speech, I mean."

Meaning, the party guests had gossiped about it like a bunch of old women. Which was fine—her own family had indulged in plenty of scurrilous gossip as well. "I'm sure that was quite stimulating."

"Just so you know, everyone at the dinner thought your dad did a fantastic job. Even the Countess of Thelanor. Although, her admiration was just a tiny bit grudging." Eyes full of mischief, he leaned over to whisper, "I don't think she really likes him."

"No skin off my back. Or my dad's. I doubt he really likes her either."

"Her son, Mordulf, he's a good friend of mine. We were roommates at the War College."

She cringed inside a little; had she just put her foot in it all over again? "Should I get my apology out, offer to take back what I just said?"

"No, it's fine, don't worry. But, I, um, I told Mordulf about us." He set his hand on her knee again, gave it a comforting squeeze. "On Sunday morning. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. It's your secret as much as it is mine. And you're the King. You can tell whoever you want."

"It's just, I felt like I needed someone else on my side. And I know I can trust him, he won't breathe a word."

"How did he take the news?"

"Pretty well. He was a little surprised." He grinned. "But mostly because we've made it to a fourth date."

"He doesn't think you've lost your mind for dating a Hamelmark, then?"

"Maybe a tiny bit, yes." He sipped his wine, turned to set it on the side table. "He, um, he had some interesting ideas about how some people might react if the fact we're dating got out."

Just thinking about their secret getting out made her innards churn in fear. She would much rather keep their relationship hidden for as long as they could. "Is that something you're worried about? What other people might think?"

"If I was just a private citizen, I wouldn't give a damn what other people might think."

"But you're as far from being a private citizen as a Rohanese person can be."

He nodded. "I'm the King. I have to consider how matters which would otherwise be viewed as private could tarnish the image of the Crown."

No stripper girlfriends, then. And maybe, in some people's eyes, no punching girlfriends, either. "Do you worry people won't approve of me dating you because of my Ban?"

"To be honest, a little bit, yes. It never became a criminal matter, but you _did_ break someone's nose."

"I was eighteen," she said, feeling a flush of anger creep up her chest. "And Thelden Camelor deserved it."

"He absolutely did, yes."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked, before she even realized what she was saying.

"Why the hell would I not be sure?"

She'd said what she'd said; it was too late to take it back now. "It's just, you've never given any indication you ever believed my side of the story," she quietly pointed out. "You weren't at the meeting your uncle held the following morning. And you never made any attempt to lift my Ban until I wrote to you in April. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, or as if I'm accusing you of something, but it wouldn't be hard to look at the evidence and assume you didn't care about what happened." She paused, then added, "That you believed I got what I deserved."

"It wasn't that," he said, shaking his head. " _Never_ that. It's just... the whole thing was complicated."

As so many things in his life were. And a few in hers as well. "Having to live abroad for eight years wasn't exactly a walk in the park either."

"You didn't have to do that. You could have lived in Isendale instead. Or anywhere except Edoras."

"That's not really the point, though, is it?"

"No, I suppose it isn't." He let out a sigh, reclaimed his wine to take a slow sip.

Quietly, bracing herself, she asked, " _Did_ you believe me at the time?"

"I did, yes, absolutely," he said, serious and solemn. "I didn't hear what he said to you, but Thelden Camelor has always been a vicious bully, so I had no problem believing he did what you said he did." He pulled his gaze away from her to look at the floor. "But my uncle had a different view," he admitted.

No prizes for guessing what that view was. "He thought I was lying."

"It wasn't that simple. I think deep down, he knew you were telling the truth."

"Then why didn't he help me?" she asked, leaning forward in her seat. "I was _eighteen_. And a grown man I didn't know had just told me he wanted to _rape_ me."

"Because the grown man in question was very good friends with Grima Vurmtung," he almost snapped. "And Grima Vurmtung had my uncle _completely_ under his thumb."

She'd had her suspicions—suspicions her dad and grandfather shared—but she'd never realized it had been that bad. "So, the Camelors talked to Grima, and Grima talked to your uncle, and and I ended up with my Ban while Thelden got off without even a slap on the wrist. Is that how it worked?"

"I think so, yes, but I don't know for sure." His tone was gentle now; weary, almost. "My uncle kept me out of the process completely. I think he knew I would disagree with him."

"But you've never revisited it since," she added.

"I haven't, no. And that's on me," he said, turning his gaze to her again, his eyes earnest and sympathetic. "I could have opened the file again at any time after I became King. And I didn't." He took her hand to kiss it. "I'm sorry."

"To be fair, you were probably busy trying to deal with a million and one more important things."

"At the start of my reign, absolutely, yes. You wouldn't _believe_ how crazy the first year was. I swear, some days, I didn't know if I was supposed to be taking a shit or having a haircut."

On a busy day, probably both at the same time. "I guess that means you've never looked at the official records."

"I haven't, no."

"I mean, I assume there would be official records of some kind? The King's Ban is a formal legal document. Someone would have logged it somewhere, right?"

"That's a good question," he said. "I've honestly never thought about it. There might be something in the Archives."

"I'd be interested to see what you have. To see what your uncle thought, how and why he came to his official decision." She forced a smile. "Who knows? Maybe he had some other reason. Something worse than your Grima theory."

"I could take a look for you," he offered. "See what's in the files."

"I'd appreciate that." There might be nothing worth seeing at all, or there might be evidence of a Palace-wide cover-up of some kind, but she would like to know, just to be sure. Just to close the book on the matter once and for all.

"Consider it done," he said. "I'll visit the Archives this week if I can."

"No rush. It's waited ten years. It can wait a few weeks more."

His face broke into a mischievous grin. "And speaking of being willing to wait a few weeks, can someone _please_ explain, what in Bema's name is going on with Elfhelm and your brother?"

"Not sure I follow."

"They met on Thursday, right?"

She nodded. "After my dad's speech in the Hall."

"And now Elf's sending him fever dream orchids? After a _single_ date?"

She wasn't sure how much actual 'dating' had been involved. She shrugged as she sipped on her wine. "What can I say? We Hamelmarks obviously know how to make a good impression on people." Especially between the sheets.

"Your brother, yes." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm still not sure about you."

"You weren't saying that half an hour ago."

"I wasn't saying anything half an hour ago. I didn't have the power of speech."

There was that, yes. She spotted a chance to take her revenge for his 'lady' remark. "You sure you're not just jealous because Elfhelm has better taste in flowers than you?"

"Are you saying you didn't like my flowers?"

"Not at all, no. Your flowers were absolutely stunning." And only now coming into full bloom. "The nicest flowers I've ever received."

His mouth quirking was the warning. "Do you think Brendal liked them as well?"

She shrank away a little, her whole body squirming in shame. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Not a goddamn chance. I'm still going to be bitching about this when I'm eighty."

Whether with or without her remained to be seen. "If it's any consolation, Brendal thought your flowers were lovely as well."

"Okay, good."

"But he thought the orchids were even nicer."

"It's just _ridiculous_ ," he said, gesticulating with his free arm. "Nobody in their right mind sends something as expensive as fever dream orchids after one date."

"I think you're just jealous Elfhelm upstaged you."

"Am not."

"I mean, I would understand if you were," she said. "You _are_ the King. It should be against the law to even try to one-up you."

"Right?" he said, nodding as if she was finally talking sense. "Cus I'm pretty sure that's _exactly_ what it was. When I texted Elf, I told him what flowers I'd ordered. I think at least half of the reason he did what he did was just to give me the middle finger."

And there was another bone she wanted to pick. "Speaking of your texts to Elfhelm," she started.

"What about them?" he asked, rising from the couch to graze for more snacks.

"When you text him tomorrow morning to tell him how our date tonight went, could you maybe not give him a blow-by-blow account of the bedroom segment?"

He had the decency to look a little ashamed. "I was about to ask how you knew, then I remembered who must have been there when Elf got my texts."

Elfhelm had probably read the messages out to Erland while they waited for the coffee to brew. "And let's just say, Erland took _great_ delight in relaying what he'd heard to me."

"Okay, but I'm confused," Eomer said, waving a chicken stick at her. "You're annoyed because I shared details with Elfhelm, right?""

"Uh huh?"

"Does that mean you didn't share any details with Erland?"

She was a Hamelmark, dammit; she should have seen that trap coming. "I might have told him a few things about our date as well."

"So, it's okay for you to gossip to your brother, but it's not okay for me to gossip to my best friend?"

"It's not the gossiping so much as the level of detail."

"Meaning?" he asked.

"Meaning, thanks to what you put in your texts, your best friend and my brother know exactly what we did on your desk."

He flashed a grin. "I'll admit, that was something I should maybe have kept to myself."

"Thank you."

"In my defense, it was only because I wanted to share how absolutely amazing it was," he said as he reclaimed his seat.

"Flattery will get His Majesty nowhere."

"Not even if His Majesty told you it was the best third date he's ever had?"

"That might help a little, yes." She slipped a hand around his neck to pull him in for a kiss. "Keep talking like that, you could have an amazing fourth one as well."

He reached up to stroke her hair. Softly, he said, "I already am."

That was, hands down, the nicest, kindest, sweetest thing a man had ever said. She kissed him again, tenderly, closing her eyes, tasting him, stroking his cheek, basking in his proximity, and in the simple scent and warmth of his body. Sex was great, but sometimes, it was nice to just sit and cuddle as well.

He broke the kiss, licking his lips. "Just so you know, I think my refueling is done."

"Sorry?"

"I think I might be ready for the next round." He leaned over to kiss the long, exposed length of her thigh, making her innards turn to goo again. "Not that there's any rush, of course. We have all night."

Not _all_ night, but she got the point. "You sure you're ready?"

He slid a hand up under her shirt to trace circles on her stomach, looked up at her from under his lashes. "Pretty sure, yes."

"Are you going to let me take charge this time?" She had her plan ready; she was going to ride him slowly and gently, do some of the wooing he hadn't been in the mood for before. Make love to him, instead of just grinding against him like a rutting warg in heat.

He heaved a theatrical sigh. "It's highly irregular, but if I must, yes."

She rolled off the couch, stood up, held out an inviting hand. "Would His Majesty care to join Her Ladyship in the bedroom, then?"

He took the hand. "His Majesty certainly would."

She spotted her dad from the top of the drive. The lights in his office were on, and the blinds were angled just enough to let her see in. And to let him see out, of course. He was sprawled in his recliner chair, reading what looked like a paperback book, raising his eyes to look out the window every five to ten seconds. Eventually, when she was close enough, he saw her, smiled and gave a small wave.

Once she was in the house, she stuck her head through his office door. "That's me home in one piece. You can stop waiting up for me now."

To his credit, he didn't even try to pretend that wasn't what he'd been doing. "You have a good night?" he asked, taking off his reading glasses and setting his book aside.

"We did, yes."

"Do anything fun?"

"Yes, but nothing I'd care to tell you about."

"Fair enough," he said, grinning. "Can't imagine you want to know much about my sex life either."

She didn't want to know he had one, much less what state it was in. But there was one thing she _did_ want to know. "Speaking of telling people things," she started.

"Uh huh?"

"Who the _hell_ have you been talking to at work?"

The grin widened. "That depends on what is it you think I've been talking to them about."

"About the fact I'm dating Brendal," she said. "Who did you share that particular snippet with?"

"What makes you think I shared it with anyone?"

Bema, it was like playing the twenty questions game; could he not just give her a straight answer for once? "Okay, well, how about the fact the Countess of Darkfald apparently shared the news with everyone at her dinner party on Saturday night?"

He winced and made a pained face. "Right, yeah, I thought that might have happened."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"Someone mentioned your thing with Brendal to me at work today." He shook his head, as if dismissing the thought. "But it doesn't matter who. Forget I even brought it up."

Easier said than done. He wasn't the one whose love life was the subject of discussion. "So, you blabbed to Erella Darkfald, and she's blabbing to other people in the Hall." She threw up her hands. "Awesome."

"I didn't mean any harm. She asked about you, wanted to know how you were doing. It just sort of slipped out."

"Horseshit," she spat.

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You never let anything slip out. When you share information with someone, it's because that's _exactly_ what you intended to do. Don't give me the 'it was an accident' crap."

He held up surrendering hands. "You're right. I'm sorry. It wasn't an accident. I knew exactly what I was doing."

"See? That wasn't too hard, was it?" But what a bloody hypocrite she was, castigating someone for lying, when she was telling him the mother and father of all whoppers herself.

"Okay, but how did you even find out? That Erella's been blabbing, I mean? Did Erland tell you?" he guessed. "Did he get the gossip from Elfhelm? Was that it?"

Oh, if only. But she hadn't heard a thing from Erland since he'd left to visit Elfhelm on Sunday night. "Something much worse than that."

"What?"

"You remember Brendal mentioned the King was going to the party at the Elgolls as well?"

"Uh huh?"

"The _King_?" she repeated. "As in, the guy who owns all the motorbikes Brendal looks after? His _boss_?"

Her dad let out a quiet groan. "Please tell me I didn't just get Brendal into trouble?"

"He's not in trouble, no, but he just had the most stressful Monday morning of his life. Said he'd barely taken his coat off when the King turned up in the garage demanding to know his side of the story." Was that a lie? Technically, probably not—what she'd just said was totally true, it was just a question of who had relayed the details of the incident to her.

Bema. She was dealing with a lot of technicalities these days. She should give up working in finance, retrain as a lawyer instead...

"When you see him next, tell him I'm sorry. I never intended to cause him any kind of hassle."

"He knows you didn't. And I know you didn't. But you wouldn't have caused him any hassle at all if you'd just kept your mouth shut. Or, even better, if you'd just kept your nose completely out of my personal business, not made me tell you we were even dating at all."

"Solly..."

She held up a hand to cut him off. It was like the night after the naming party again—she needed to tell him how she felt, whether he bloody well wanted to listen to it or not. "I know you don't mean any harm. But it's ridiculous, how much of my personal business you end up knowing about, because I'm living in this house."

"It's not as if I'm picking on you. I end up knowing a bunch about your brother's as well."

"Yes, but you shouldn't know about any of our business at all, unless we choose to share it with you. If we were any other family, we'd both be living in our own place, and you wouldn't have a _clue_ what we're doing." And, more importantly, who they were doing it with. "I could stay out every night until two o'clock in the morning, have sex with twenty different men a week, and you wouldn't know a damn thing."

Quietly, he asked, "What would you like me to do?"

"It's not you who needs to do something."

"Meaning?"

He was going to hate this, but she'd been thinking about it more and more, and today's events had just reminded her it had to be done. "Meaning, at the end of the Midsummer break, if I come back to Edoras"—which she almost certainly would, if only to keep seeing the King—"I'm not going to move back here."

His face fell. "You want to get your own place."

"I do, yes. Or move in with Ellie. She has plenty of room."

"If you move out, your brother will move out as well," he warned. "I think he only stays here out of a sense of duty, because it's what our family's always done."

"To be honest with you, he _should_ move out." If only for the sake his nascent romance—she couldn't imagine Elfhelm wanting to spend the night at a house with four other family members in it. "But that's for Erland to decide. It's not my decision to make any more than it is yours."

Sighing, he pushed up from his chair. "The way things are going, if he moves out, it might have to be the Isendale house he moves to."

There was only one thing that comment could mean. "To manage the holding." To do the job he really should have been doing for the last eight years.

He nodded. "Your grandpa's doing a great job, he knows the business like the back of his hand, but he's eighty-two." He perched on the edge of his desk. "Someone younger needs to take over."

It couldn't be Jemmy; it had to be a family member. And not just any family member. "I would offer to take over from him, but I'm pretty sure you would turn me down."

He came to stand in front of her, took her lightly by the shoulders. "It's not that I don't want your help, sweet pea. It's that I can't take it," he said, softly. "You know how it works. The job has to go to the heir."

"So, I can't inherit your seat in the Hall, and I can't inherit your job at the house."

"Does it really bother you that much?"

"Sometimes, a little bit, yes." She gave him a reassuring smile. "But not so much it makes me want to stand up in the hall and demand an overhaul of the whole system."

"Good. " He let his arms drop, grabbed a glass of wine on the table next to his chair, finished what was left. "Erella wouldn't like you if you did that."

"No offense, but right now, I don't give two flying _fucks_ what Erella would like."

"Don't be too angry with her. She didn't realize what I told her was something she shouldn't share." He reached out to turn out the largest of the three lamps. "I'll have a word with her about it tomorrow."

"Who was it who brought it up with you?" she asked.

"Sorry?"

"A few minutes ago, you said someone mentioned it to you at work today. Who was it?"

He shook his head. "Not important. Doesn't matter," he said, in a way that told her that yes, it absolutely was, and yes, it absolutely did.

"If it doesn't matter, there's no harm in just telling me, is there?"

"Solly..."

"Stop lying to me."

"I'm not lying to you," he said, just a little curtly.

"Okay, then stop trying to hide things from me." She crossed her arms. "I'm not a child. Tell me the truth."

"Rogen Camelor," he said, scowling at her. " _That's_ who brought it up."

The Earl of Camelor; the man she hated more than any other man on the planet. Apart from his younger brother, of course. She was going to strangle Erella with her bare hands. "Let me guess. He made some delightfully witty remark about what shitty taste I have in men."

He smirked a little. "Words to that effect, yes."

"The next time you see him, can you remind him I have better taste in men than either of his bloody wives?"

But even that wasn't true. Not if Seorsa Camelor had been one of Eomer's lovers as well.

Bema. This was all getting to be a little too much...

She'd done and said enough today; time to get a good night's sleep. "I'm going to head to bed now. I'll see you sometime tomorrow." At the door, she paused to turn back. "Try not to start a rumour that Brendal and I are getting married before the morning, okay?"

"Like I said, I didn't mean any harm."

She thought of her own little lying debacle, and the trouble it had already caused. "That's the whole bloody problem, though, isn't it?"

"What?"

"None of us ever do."


	85. Chapter 85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer pays a visit to the Archives, finds something shocking, seeks Colwenna's advice. Godhild moves another step closer to the end of the rope. Eomer and the Prime Minister have an interesting chat.

**Tuesday June 23, 2020**

The Senior Archivist wasn't on duty today.

He wouldn't have to justify what he wanted, then, good. The various Assistant Archivists might not be as knowledgeable as their boss, or as familiar with the files, but at least they responded to Eomer's questions with an eager nod and a smile. They didn't politely grill him about his intentions, ask him why he wanted to see what he'd asked to see, or generally just make him feel like an intruder in his own palace.

The Senior Archivist was a good man, but sometimes, Gamlin forgot whose bloody archive it was…

As Eomer stepped into the room, the Assistant Archivist on duty sprang to his feet. "Your Majesty," Aliver said, giving the quickest of bows. "Forgive me, there was nothing in the calendar, I wasn't expecting to receive you today."

"An unplanned visit," Eomer said. "But nothing to worry about," he added as Aliver frowned. "I just need your assistance with a small matter."

"Of course, sir." Aliver stepped out from behind his desk. "And may I ask, what would that matter be?"

"I'd like to view some documents from my late uncle's reign."

"Would you happen to know which year of his reign, sir?"

He could do even better than that. "June of twenty-ten." Eomer lowered his voice to add, "Relating to what happened at the Earl of Hamelmark's confirmation."

Aliver gave a knowing smile. "You mean the incident with the Ban."

"The incident with the Ban, yes." The only Ban imposed in the last twenty years, so no need to name any names. "I need to see whatever official documentation we have on file relating to my uncle's decision."

"Of course. If you'll just follow me, sir, it should be right over here." Aliver guided him to the far wall. He checked the date on an eye-level box, side-stepped a couple of paces, kneeled down, checked the date on a box near the floor, stood up again, stepped along another few paces, reached up to pull a box off the top shelf. He flipped up the lid to thumb through the files, drew out a slender folder. "I believe this is what you're looking for, sir," Aliver said, holding the folder out. "All the official documents gathered with respect to the matter."

The matter. What a lovely, harmless way to put it…

"Thank you." Eomer took the file, laid it on a nearby table, opened it to pull out and scan through the contents. There wasn't a lot to see—a transcript of Lord Thelden's account, another of Lady Solwen's, a two-page summary report concluding Solwen was at fault. Written by Grima, of all people. Knowing that thieving, lying bastard had supported Thelden's view of events was all the evidence Eomer needed of who had _really_ been to blame.

Thieving, lying bastards liked to stick together, it seemed...

There were more documents right at the back. A full report from Thelden's doctor (including an x-ray of his face which showed the beautifully broken nose) and statements from people who'd been in the room and witnessed the punch. Including his own brief summary—a single page he'd written himself with his old Aldburg signature at the bottom. Nothing from any of Solwen's family members. But that made sense—they'd all been up at the front of the room, looking towards the throne, so they wouldn't have seen anything going on at the back of the Hall. And there, at the very end of the file was the actual King's Ban. Solwen had been given a copy, but this was the original text, written in the formal Court style, signed and sealed in wax by Theoden King himself.

"Is this all there is?" Eomer gestured to the box in Aliver's hands. "There isn't a follow-up file?"

Aliver peered in the box. "I'm afraid not, sir. That file is all we have."

Was this really all there was to it? Somehow, that didn't seem right. "Would there be any documents anywhere else?" Eomer asked. "In another archive, perhaps?"

Frowning, Aliver shook his head. "This is where we store all documents relating to official royal decisions, sir. We don't store anything away from the palace." His expression lit up; he turned to gesture at the reinforced door in the far wall, which Eomer knew would be locked. "Unless there's something in the Restricted Section, of course."

The Restricted Section. The sensitive and scandalous stuff. Where they put all the documents they didn't want anyone except a few highly trusted people to see.

"Do you have access?" Eomer asked.

Aliver shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir, no. None of the Assistant Archivists do. Only Gamlin."

Not that it mattered. "I have access," Eomer said. "I can take a look myself." He closed the folder, marched to the door. Now, what sequence did he do the security things in again? Thumb scan first, then the code, or code first, then the scan? The system would lock him out for an hour if he got the order wrong. Not an insurmountable problem, but he wanted to take care of this issue as soon as he could.

"Thumb scan first, sir," Vonnal quietly said from his sentry post at the door. "Code input second."

Grinning, Eomer held his thumb to the scanning panel. "Vonnal, what would I _ever_ do without you?" The panel beeped and the light turned green. He raised the cover on the number pad, stabbed in his eight digit code. It was supposed to be a ten digit code, but eight digits had proved to be as much as Eomer's brain could manage. Three separate lockout events requiring Algrin's assistance to fix had taught them all that.

The panel beeped, accepting the code; inside the reinforced frame, eight massive bolts slid back with a shuddering thud. Eomer pushed the handle, opened the door and stepped into the room beyond. It wasn't much of a room—the world's smallest, gloomiest, least attractive, most antiseptic library space. Except, the documents on these shelves were like nothing no other library owned. This room was a literal treasure trove of secrets and scandals. Every fuck up the House of Eorl had ever made—every murder, every affair, every illegitimate child, every theft, every bribery or blackmail attempt, anything that could stain the royal family's reputation in even the mildest of ways—it was all sitting on these shelves. Ordered strictly by date, starting back in the early years of King Aldor's reign.

He went to the shelf for Theoden's reign. There wasn't much—not compared to some previous kings—but enough to show his uncle's time on the throne hadn't been as trouble-free as most people believed. The file about Queen Edhild's death, the file about the Westmore affair, the file about Camelor's father. What Camelor wouldn't give to be allowed to read that. Eomer kept moving, heart sinking as he started to run out of files. There was going to be nothing. What was in the file outside in the main room was going to be all he had.

And then, he saw it, right at the end. A slender file, showing a date the week after the event. He yanked it off the shelf to flip it open. The file had only a few pieces of paper inside, including a statement from one of the palace attendants—someone who'd been on duty that night, taking care of the guests in the Hall, making sure they were watered and fed. And a pretty damning statement, at that, Eomer realized as he scanned the text. No wonder it was in this room. Someone had read this report, decided it was too dangerous to ever see the light of day. And no prizes for guessing who. Across the top, in bright red ink, someone had written RESTRICTED. Even after ten years, he still recognized Grima's angular scrawl. This was all the Worm's work, then. He hadn't just written the 'official' conclusion—he'd suppressed important evidence as well. Evidence that would have proved who'd really been in the wrong. Had his uncle seen this report? Or, had Grima hidden it even from him?

He stuffed the document in the folder, headed out to the main room, locking the massive door behind him.

An eager-eyed Aliver was waiting for him. "Did you find anything useful, sir?" he asked.

Eomer wielded the purloined file. "I certainly did." He grabbed the non-Restricted file from the desk, tucked both folders under his arm. "I'm borrowing these. I'll bring them back when I'm done."

Alarm flashed on Aliver's face. "Your Majesty, my apologies, but it's against the rules to remove items from the Restricted section."

"And remind me again, who makes the rules?" Which Eomer knew was a shitty trick to pull, but he wasn't in the mood to argue with people today.

"You do, sir." Aliver quietly admitted. "Please just be careful with it," he pleaded. "The file was in the Restricted section for a reason."

"I give you my word I'll keep it safe," Eomer said. "I won't let anyone else anywhere near it." Except Colwenna—he wanted her input on the matter. And maybe Eowyn's as well. "And I'll bring them back in person as soon as I'm done. Gamlin won't even know I took them, I promise."

Aliver sighed in relief. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank _you_ , Aliver." He used the folders to wave. "You enjoy the rest of your day."

There were four new messages on her phone, all saying more or less the same thing.

WHERE'S MY NAME? the last message read, sent barely an hour before.

He wanted his answer, and, as always, he wanted it now. Except, she still didn't have an answer to give him. Would never have one, the way things with her duties were going. And certainly not by six o'clock tonight. That would take a miracle of _epic_ proportions.

She should throw in the towel, right here, right now. Turn around, walk out the door, go home and tell her sister to start packing. They had a cousin in Bree who'd always told him they were welcome to visit; he would surely put them up for a while until they figured out their next move. They could be ready to leave first thing tomorrow if they started packing now. Maybe even by later tonight. That would be the safest choice—get out before Sendoc got the Earl's message and sent his collectors to 'follow up' with them.

But she was already here, and very obviously not sick. If she went home now, Fastmer would be suspicious—maybe even suspicious enough to pay her an out-of-hours visit. Best to just see her shift out, not raise any red flags, start planning and packing when she got home.

The door opening made her jump. Quickly, Godhild closed her phone over, stuck it right at the back of her locker.

The new arrival was Dernbrand—one of maybe three people on the whole team she was still on proper speaking terms with. And even with him, her patience was starting to wear—another sign it might be time to move on.

She forced a smile she didn't feel. "That you just finishing up?" she said.

He nodded. "That's me done for the day, yes. Started at midnight. Time to check out and go home." Stifling a yawn, he gestured her way. "You're just coming on, I guess?"

Unfortunately. What she wouldn't give to swap places with him. "Just about to clock in," she said. "Working from now until four. Camera and perimeter duty." And if she was really lucky, maybe some paperwork as well.

"Fastmer still giving you terrible shifts?"

"The dregs." She grabbed her jacket from her locker, pulled it on to button it up. "But I'm sure it'll be fine in the end," she lied. "He'll see sense eventually. Once he realizes I haven't done anything wrong."

"I'm quite sure you haven't." He moved to his locker to punch in his code. "I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding on his part."

"That's what I was thinking, yes."

"And it's not as if it's hard to make him suspicious," Dernbrand said, shucking out of his jacket to hang it up. "I swear, the man sees plots and scheming in every corner."

"Right?" she said, forcing a grin, innards silently screaming.

He sat on the bench to take off his boots. "Then again, he _is_ just trying to protect the King. And Bema knows, His Majesty doesn't always make it easy for people to him."

"You mean, what he did in April up at the Pass?"

He shook his head. "More that he keeps breaking basic security rules."

"Can't say I know about that."

"You haven't heard, then? That he's been sneaking in this woman he's seeing? Having Colwenna bring her in by the back route, instead of going in through his main door?"

That explained why none of them had seen the woman—Colwenna had taken steps to make sure there was nothing for any of them to see. "I assume the fact you're telling me this means His Majesty got caught?"

He stood up, grabbed a pair of regular shoes from his locker; the locker clanged as he threw in his boots. "More or less, yes. It apparently came out a couple of weeks ago, Algrin and Fastmer told him to stop being naughty."

Politely, Godhild hoped. Although, with Fastmer, one could never be sure…

"So, she's coming in through the front door now," Dernbrand went on. "And being met by someone when she arrives. From our team, I mean. Not just Colwenna."

"Good," she said, reaching in to pull out her belt. "Just because he's the King doesn't mean he gets to break the rules whenever he wants. We put them in place for a reason. He needs to follow them as much as we do."

"Oh, and she was here again last night," Dernbrand declared in an offhand tone.

Godhild's whole body froze. Last night. When Dernbrand had gone on door duty at twelve. Was that before or after the woman had left? Had he been at the door at the time, maybe gotten a good look at her? As neutrally as she could, she asked, "Did you see her?"

" _I_ didn't, no. She was already gone by the time I turned up." He grabbed his jacket, then his wallet, keys and phone, stuffed them in various pockets. "But Guthlaf did. I chatted to him when I took over, he told me she came in just before eight, left just before twelve. Said he got a really good look at her."

"She's pretty, I guess?" A harmless but pointless question. This was the King they were talking about; of course his girlfriend would be pretty.

"Guthlaf thought so, yes." Dernbrand smirked. "Said she looked as if she would be amazing in bed. His words, not mine."

"I don't imagine you get to be the King's lady friend just by being a nice person."

"Probably not, no."

She stuffed her feet in her boots, put her right foot up on the bench to tie up the laces, not quite sure what to say next that wouldn't sound incriminating.

"Here's the really interesting part," Dernbrand said.

Her hand froze mid-knot. "What's that?"

He slammed his locker door shut, turned to look right at her. "Guthlaf thinks he heard Colwenna say her name."

The name she needed to know. The name that might save her sister from Sendoc's goons. One word. One _tiny_ word, and all her problems would be solved. Or, all her problems with the Earl, at least. The job situation would still be a mess. "Really?" she said, hoping he couldn't hear her heart pounding.

"Really, yes."

The asshole was testing her. Dangling a juicy carrot, pushing her to ask him for more. Trying to trick her into letting her true colours show, into admitting she needed the information he knew.

She wasn't going to fall for his tricks. She _couldn't_. If she asked for the name, he might share it with her, but he would also know she was guilty for sure. He would probably put his uniform on, wish her a pleasant day, and head straight to Fastmer's office to tell their boss all the stuff from their previous conversations he really should have told him before. So, "Good for him," was all she said back.

"You don't want to know what her name is?" he said, surprised.

"Can't see why it's any of my business." She finished the lace, put her foot down, brought the other foot up instead. "If nobody's told me, it's not for me to know."

He barked a sharp laugh. "You're really going to do this the hard way, aren't you?"

She jerked upright, anger building, laces forgotten. " _Excuse_ me?"

He stepped in, facing her over the bench. "I'm offering you the one piece of information I know you need, and you're trying to act as if you don't care, because you know that asking for it means you're guilty."

Heart pounding again, she went back to her laces. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A flash of movement, he grabbed her arm, shoved her hard against her locker, looked her straight in the eye. " _Ask_ me," he almost spat, face twisting in fury. "Tell me you want the name. I'm more than happy to share it with you." His grip on her arm tightened. "You just have to tell me why."

And therein lay the rub. She couldn't tell him, _wouldn't_ tell him, not even if he offered the code to the royal vault in return. Scowling, she jerked her arm free, pushed him away. "I don't give a crap what her name is."

"Liar."

Fury spiking, she pushed him again. "You need to leave me the fuck alone." She slammed her locker door shut, hard enough to make the whole row judder, spun the wheel on the lock. "I don't need to know _anything_. Like I told you before, I don't give a damn who the King's dating." Fighting back tears, she marched to the door to yank it open.

"Godhild," Dernbrand called out.

"What?"

"When this unravels, you're going to be in _so_ much shit."

She bit down on a bitter laugh. _Going_ to be? Didn't he realize, she already was?

A knock on his door; before he could answer, Colwenna stuck her head in.

"Fenbrand mentioned you were looking for me?" she said.

Eomer nodded. "I was, yes." He beckoned her into the room, gestured for her to close the door over behind her. "I need some advice," he said, setting aside the document he'd been reading. The new Dalish free trade treaty would just have to wait. "On a rather sensitive matter," he added. "I was hoping you would be able to help."

"It's not about your love life is it?" she asked with a weary look. "Because I think I've used my weekly allotment of relationship advice already. You'll have to wait until next week if you want any more."

He was halfway to telling her his love life wasn't _that_ bad, took a second to think about it, realized yes, it probably was. "Not explicitly, no. But it does touch on it a little."

She heaved a sigh, muttered something—a quick prayer for patience, perhaps. "Go on, then. What's the problem?"

He unlocked a drawer in his desk, pulled out the first of the two files—the one from the non-Restricted section. He held the folder out. "The information in this file is."

Frowning, she took the file, opened it to scan down the first page. "Oh, my," she murmured. "These are the official documents relating to Lady Solwen's Ban."

"They certainly are." He gestured for her to take a seat; nodding her thanks, she sank onto a chair. "I paid a visit to the Archives this morning," he said. "I wanted to see what we had on file about the matter."

She flicked to the next page. "Any particular reason why?" she asked without looking up.

"Lady Solwen and I talked about the matter last night. She wanted to know if I'd seen the documentation. If I knew for sure why my uncle did what he did."

Her eyes came up. "And what did you tell her?"

"The truth," Eomer admitted. "That I hadn't seen the paperwork, wasn't sure if there was even any paperwork to see."

"Anything else?"

"I also told her what I thought my uncle's reasoning was. Why he probably did what he did."

"Grima," she said, as if the name was a dirty word. Which, in this building, it more or less was.

"Grima, yes," he said, nodding. "I told her he was friends with the Camelor brothers, that he probably spoke on Thelden's behalf, persuaded Uncle Ted to believe Thelden's account instead of hers."

"And when you say _persuaded_..."

She was probably going to be angry with him, but what was done, was done; he couldn't take it back now. "I didn't lie. I told her the truth about the influence angle as well. I think the precise phrase I used was under the thumb."

"I really wish you hadn't said that."

"I know you do. But it wasn't something I just did on a whim. I wanted her to understand what factors were at play, what influenced my uncle's decision. I wanted her to know the decision didn't really come from him, that someone else was responsible for it."

She sighed, nodding. "When you put it like that, I understand, yes."

"I know you don't want people to know how much influence Grima had, because you worry they'll use it to attack Uncle Ted—"

"—You know what kind of things they'll say," she interjected. "That he was weak, or easily swayed, or feeble-minded. And I won't tolerate that, under _any_ circumstances. Your uncle and I, Bema knows we didn't always see eye to eye, but he was a good man, a kind, caring, compassionate man, and he doesn't deserve to be slandered. Especially when he's not here to defend himself."

"I know." And saying she and Uncle Ted hadn't always seen eye to eye—Bema, talk about an understatement? "But what happened that night is a sensitive matter for Lady Solwen as much as it is for the House of Eorl. She doesn't want the details getting out any more than we do. Trust me, she's not going to share what I told her."

"Not with her father, at least," Colwenna said drily.

He couldn't help but grin. "His Lordship won't be on the list of people getting a timely update, no." On this, or on any other matter…

"And how did Lady Solwen react?"

He remembered how blunt Solwen's questions had been, how offended he'd felt when she'd questioned his own position, until he'd realized she'd had every right to ask what she'd asked, every right to be a little angry with him. His own anger had faded, shame had taken over instead. "She was annoyed. A little angry."

"Hardly surprising. I don't agree with what she did, violence is never a proper way to solve a problem, but the punishment she received far outweighed the offence. If I was in her shoes, I would be angry with your uncle as well."

"It wasn't just that."

"Oh?"

"She, um, she was also a bit angry with me."

Colwenna shook her head. "Oh, no. Certainly not. What happened was _absolutely_ not your fault. I was there, I remember how it all went down. I know your uncle shut you out, refused to let you have a say in the matter. Whoever's to blame for Lady Solwen's Ban, it certainly isn't you."

"Not for its _creation_ , no. But for its _continuation_ , absolutely, yes."

"I don't follow."

"Colwenna, I've been King now for almost eight years. And until Solwen wrote to me two months ago, I never gave her Ban even the briefest of thoughts. I didn't impose it, but I could have long since done something about it. Revoked it, redefined it, ordered a fresh investigation int what happened. Anything but just let it sit on a shelf and gather dust."

Sighing, she closed the folder over. "Are we _really_ going to do this again?"

"Do what again?"

"Do you remember the conversation we had back at the start of your reign?" she said. "When I had to sit you down and explain to you that not every problem in the world is yours to solve? And that sometimes, going looking for problems causes more trouble than its worth? And that instead of looking, you should let people bring their problems to you in their own time?"

He remembered it hadn't been a conversation so much as an ear-burning lecture. A much-needed one at that; he'd been on the verge of exhaustion, trying to do everything he thought should be done. "I have a vague memory of it, yes."

"This is a prime example of what I meant. _Could_ you have looked into Lady Solwen's Ban when you became King?" She gave a curt nod. "Absolutely, yes. But if there's been nothing to stop you fixing the problem, there's also been nothing to stop her from asking for help. She didn't have to wait eight years to write that letter. She could have written to you literally in the first week of your reign."

"I know that."

"But it's not about who should have done what, is it?" She held out the folder. "You feel guilty, and you care about her, so you're trying to help."

He nodded as he took the file. "I do care about her, yes." An admission that made his mouth go dry and his heart pound for a few panicked seconds. "And I think she wants some closure. To read the official report, set what happened straight in her head, understand exactly why everyone did what they did, wrap it in a big mental bow, put it very firmly behind her."

"Understandable. It's been ten years. She probably doesn't even like to talk about it."

"No, I don't think she does. The day we first had lunch, when Elf and I bumped in her to at the Snowbourn Bridge, Elf made a little joke about it, she looked as if she just wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole."

"I'm sure he didn't mean any harm."

"He absolutely didn't, no. I doubt anyone who mentions it does." Except the Camelors, of course. And maybe a few other Landed people as well.

"It touches on what I told you yesterday morning," she said with a soft smile. "She wants to make peace with what happened, move on, leave the past very firmly in the past."

"I think so, yes."

She nodded at the folder. "You show her that, it should give her all the closure she needs."

Now, for the trickier part. "Except, I'm not sure it actually will."

"Why on earth not?"

He opened his desk drawer again, pulled out the second folder. "Because of this," he said, handing it to her.

Her eyes widened as she saw the red edging. "Is that from the Restricted section?"

"It is, yes."

"Do you not remember what the rules are?" she demanded, scowling at him. "You _never_ remove anything from the Restricted section. You do that, you might as well start leaving the door to the jewellery vault unlocked. If your sister finds out you have this, she'll strip your hide."

"It's fine," he said in his most soothing tone. "It's only one file. And it only has one document in it. I'll put it back this afternoon."

She took the folder. "How did you even sneak it out past Gamlin?"

"Gamlin wasn't on duty. And I didn't have to sneak it past Aliver. I just reminded him whose archive it was."

"You mean you pulled rank on him."

"I suppose you could call it that, yes."

"You better not get him in trouble," she warned. "I'm already annoyed at you because of what you did to Brendal. Don't give me a reason to be annoyed on Aliver's behalf as well. You don't pay him enough to put up with your shit."

"It's fine," he repeated. "I'll be very careful when I put the file back. Gamlin won't even know I took it, I promise."

She squinted at the date on the cover. "So, what's in this that you think will cause trouble?"

"Don't ask. Just read."

She flicked the folder open, eyes quickly scanning across and down. He spotted the exact moment of realization—she blinked, frowned, drew her head back a little. He said nothing, but sat and waited for her to finish.

She lowered the folder. "Is this for real?" she asked, astonished. "The testimony, I mean?"

"I can't see why it wouldn't be. Why else would it be in the Restricted section?" He leaned over to point to the writing at the top of the page. "And it was Grima who put it there. Whatever else he was, he wasn't stupid. If he'd had any doubts at all about the veracity of the woman's statement, he wouldn't have saved it. He would just have shredded it instead."

"It's a wonder he didn't, given what's in it."

"He came from the Civil Service, you know what they're like, destroying documents there's almost a capital crime. Plus, he was a hoarder by nature. He never threw anything out."

She gave a light snort. "Don't remind me. You weren't the one who had to arrange for his apartment to be cleaned and emptied after he vanished."

"I'm sure the new occupant was very grateful for your efforts," he said, grinning a little.

"So, let me get this straight," she started. "Someone on the Household staff actually heard what Lord Thelden said. The one thing we've never been able to prove or disprove, the thing that's had the Camelors and the Hamelmarks on the verge of civil war for the last ten years, and we knew all along?"

He nodded. "We knew all along that Solwen was telling the truth. That Thelden did say what she claimed he said."

"But Grima covered it up."

"Because he knew if this report came out, there would be nothing he could do or say to keep Thelden from being punished."

"I'm trying to decide what I want to call him that I haven't already called him before."

"No-good, lying, two-faced, thieving, stinking, asshole piece of shit?" he suggested. Not quite as bad as what Brendal had said to him, but getting close.

"I'll take that as a good start." She squinted at the top of the page, checking the name of the person who'd logged the report. "Harabel Langston," she murmured. "Not anyone I know."

"It was ten years ago. Uncle Ted was still alive, so you weren't on the staff yet. You were still working for me in Aldburg, remember? Helping me to run the estate?"

"I don't recognize the name at all, so she must have left before I took over."

"Any chance you could look into it for me?" he asked. "Find out if she's still alive, and if so, where she is?"

Her eyes came up in alarm. "Are you planning to get in touch with her?"

"Not immediately, no. But I'd like to keep her in my back pocket. Have an extra card to play if the matter turns south."

"You mean, if you share this testimony with certain people, and they take the news badly?"

Which the people in question almost certainly would. "That, yes."

She closed the folder over. "I would be very cautious about sharing this with the Camelor brothers," she said. "They won't react well to being confronted with it. They're like wild animals that way. If you corner them, try to force them to acknowledge their lies, they'll just lash out at you. Especially if you make it even a semi-public event. You'll solve one problem, but start an even bigger one in its place."

"I'm very well aware of that." He reached out to take the folder back. "Which is why I'm not going to do anything with this right now."

"What about the Hamelmarks?" she asked in a quiet voice. "Are you going to share it with them?"

"That's where I need your advice."

"You really should," she said. "They deserve to know. Especially Lady Solwen. It would give her that closure you mentioned. She would know for sure she absolutely wasn't to blame." She smirked a little. "Except for the punch, of course."

Still, with the quips about the punch. Did people even realize what they were doing? "I know that. And I do want to share it with her."

"But?" she prompted.

"But I'm worried about how the rest of her family will respond."

"You think they'll be angry." A statement, not a question.

"Wouldn't you be angry?" he said. "I wasn't at the meeting the morning after, but I know from what I overheard that Solwen's father turned up with all guns blazing, demanding Thelden should be punished, ready to throw a few hard punches of his own. And the only reason he backed down was that he couldn't prove his daughter's claim. Without that proof, he had no choice but to accept Grima's assertion that Solwen was the one in the wrong."

"And if he finds out now we've had indisputable proof all along that she wasn't, he's going to be mad."

"A bit more than mad. He's probably going to go ballistic," he said.

"You don't know that for sure. For all we know, he might take the news calmly."

Eomer snorted. "You mean, the same man who just threatened to have Brendal killed?" Although, in that case, the Earl might just have been following his own father's lead. Making it a 'fun' family custom of sorts.

"I would understand if you didn't want to share what you've found," she said.

"But?"

"But I think you should. There's been enough secrets and lies about this already. Don't go adding more on top. Tell Lady Solwen, at least. Let her decide what to share with her family from there. She was the one who suffered the Ban, not you. It's not really your decision to make."

A valid point, yes. "There's one other thing I'm worried about."

"What's that?"

He looked her right in the eye. "Colwenna, what if I tell her, and _she_ goes ballistic as well?"

"I doubt she will. I think she has a temper, yes, but I also have a feeling the one lesson she's learned out of this is never to respond to with her fists. I think it's far more likely she'll just ask you to clear her name, tell everyone who knows what happened that she wasn't to blame after all. You're probably going to have to do that anyway, if your relationship with her reaches the point where you want to tell more people about it. The news will be better received if her name's already been cleared."

A good point, yes, touching on Mordulf's concerns. But he was still nervous about the idea. Partly because, even though they'd had four dates, he still didn't know her well. Not really. He _thought_ he knew how she would react, but what if he'd gotten her wrong? "I just have this tiny worry, she'll hear what I have to say, punch _me_ , dump me in a fit of rage, then march out the door, go to Thelden Camelor's house, drag him out into the street, and try to beat the shit out of him."

Colwenna shook her head. "Not going to happen. She's been dealing with the Camelors even longer than you have. She'll know not to provoke them. If she wants to confront Lord Thelden about what happened, have him admit he was in the wrong, I'm quite sure she would do it the proper way."

"Yeah, except, there's something you're forgetting."

"What's that?"

"Sometimes, with Marchers, beating the shit out of people _is_ the proper way."

"Should have thought about that before you started dating a Hamelmark, then, shouldn't you?" she said, a little tartly. "Should have found yourself a nice young lady from the Eastfold instead."

He couldn't help but grin. "Would you believe, I'm actually beginning to like it? The Marcher thing, I mean. There's this constant undercurrent of anticipation whenever we're together, wondering when she's going to insult me next, and how subtle or scathing the insult will be. It's really quite invigorating." Not as invigorating as the sex, but that obviously went without saying.

She raised a sardonic brow at him, as if she'd heard his silent addition. "I'm quite sure it is."

A knock sounded at the door; probably Fenbrand, come to fetch him for his next meeting.

He slid the file back into the drawer. Until the matter with the spy was resolved, he didn't want Fenbrand to know he'd been digging in the Restricted section. Best to keep that between him and Colwenna for now. "Come in," he called out.

The door opened, and sure enough, there was his Senior Private Secretary, a polite smile fixed on his face, his ever-present leather folder neatly tucked under his arm. The smile slipped a bit as he saw Colwenna, but quickly returned. "Your Majesty, good morning," he said with a quick bow. "Just wanted to let you know the Prime Minister's car has just departed Stenham Street. She'll be here in eight or nine minutes."

His weekly meeting, of course. And he had something interesting to raise with her today—kicking the Earl of Manarta out of the Hall, if not out of the whole peerage as well.

He rose from his chair. "You'll look into that matter for me?" he said to Colwenna, ignoring Fenbrand's curious stare. "Let me know what you find out?"

Colwenna gave a quick nod. "Leave it with me. I'll take care of everything for you."

"Well, then," he said to Fenbrand. "Shall we go find out what the Prime Minister has to say?"

At opposite ends of the opulent room, two sets of double doors swung open at the same time.

A relatively modern tradition. Back in the Golden Age, when the monarch had wielded most of the power, and the Prime Minister had simply been a well-paid bureaucrat with a nice house who was expected to do exactly as he was told, the King had set the pace of these meetings, turning up (and leaving) at whatever time he bloody well liked. In one now infamous incident, back in the late 1890s, King Fengel had kept his then Prime Minister waiting while he 'bedded in' his new mistress instead. In the sitting room through the wall, no less.

Fortunately, the 'golden days' were long in the past. Now, the King and the Prime Minister met on much more equal ground. The Prime Minister still came to the Palace—expecting the King to go to her would be an egalitarian step too far—but the visits were scheduled down to the second, so neither ever kept the other one waiting.

Eomer stepped through one set of doors, just as Rowena Harbrand stepped through the other. They met in the middle, Harbrand pausing to give a quick bow. They might meet on more equal ground, but not on equal social status; the usual rules and forms still had to be followed.

"Prime Minister," Eomer started, obeying the rule that said he always spoke first. "Thank you for coming. How are you today?"

"I'm very well, Your Majesty," the Prime Minister said. "And you?"

"Excellent, thank you." An obvious follow-up came to mind. "Did you have a pleasant Solstice weekend?"

Harbrand smiled. "I did, yes, thank you for asking. My husband and I stayed in for once, had a quiet night to ourselves. And what about you, sir?" she asked, waving at him. "Did you do anything nice?"

"Dinner at the Elgolls." No need to explain; she knew the Earl and Countess herself. Just not as well as he did, of course. "We both had a wonderful time." On the night itself, at least. The next morning, not so much.

"I'm sure it was quite a night," she limited herself to saying.

"It was, yes." And that was as many pleasantries as he cared to cover; they only had an hour, and there were far more important matters to tackle. He waved to the table, set with the usual pots of coffee and tea; the former for him, the latter for her. By the time they were halfway through the meeting, he would probably be wishing his pot was full of whiskey instead. "Shall we?" he said.

They settled in, him taking the high-backed seat on the right, her the padded seat on the left. "So, how is the government running this week?" he asked as he poured her tea for her. "Any new problems I should be aware of?" He grinned a little. "Anything you need to vent to me about?"

"No major problems this week, sir." She added some sugar to her cup, grabbed a spoon to stir it in. "We've heard rumours the Dunnish foreign intelligence service may be trying to plant some wasps in the March."

And by wasps, she meant intelligence agents who specialized in quietly fomenting dissent among civilian populations. It was an art the Dunnish had perfected. "To cause trouble, I assume?"

She nodded as she sipped her tea. "If they _are_ sending them in, it's almost certainly to stir up anti-Edoras sentiment, maybe even some anti-Gondor sentiment as well. And to generate sympathy for the reunification movement. But rest assured, it's only a rumour for now. We've been keeping a firm eye on the situation, no evidence of any actual agitation yet."

This was exactly what Aragorn had been worried about. With very good reason—even an open suggestion of reunification would cause huge problems for both their kingdoms. "It's certainly the kind of trick the Dunnish intelligence service would pull. They've always been extremely good at slipping people in to stir up trouble from the inside." In his most non-blaming voice, he added, "Unfortunately, the election results will have been a godsend to them."

Flatly, she said, "They will have, yes."

The results were still a sore point, then. Small wonder, given how dreadful they'd been. "I assume you'll keep me informed if anything changes?" he said. "If you see any evidence of actual political interference?"

"I certainly will." Her smile was ruthlessly cold. "If we catch anyone in the act, we might need you to endorse a sternly-worded letter to the Dunnish President for us."

And Bema, wouldn't _that_ be fun? Could he just write a short note that said 'please get the fuck off my lawn'? Sadly, probably not. "Of course. Always happy to help defend and protect our sovereign borders."

She dipped her head. "Thank you, sir."

"And speaking of problems in the March, how are your own plans on the matter progressing?" Her economic initiative—the one the Earl of Hamelmark had been drafted in to help with.

Her expression brightened; some good news now. "Extremely well so far. We're finalizing the funding right now, we've identified all the organizations we want to work with, what role we want each organization to play. If all goes to plan, we should be able to start writing the cheques by the end of July."

"Excellent." He grabbed a biscuit, took a quick bite. "Am I correct in thinking you've had some help from the Earl of Hamelmark on the matter?"

"You are, sir, yes. And the Earl of Amerwen as well, to a lesser extent." Her smile turned wry. "Although, sometimes, when you're talking about Lord Hamelmark, sir, I'm not sure 'help' is the right word."

"I'll have to take your word for it. I've never had the pleasure of working with him." But 'pleasure' might not be the right word either.

"He's an extremely capable man, sir, don't get me wrong. Has _excellent_ political instincts. Can be extremely persuasive, when he puts his mind to it. And extremely charming, as well." She smiled a little as she said that, which made Eomer wonder just how charming the (very married) Earl had been. "And he knows everyone in the March worth knowing, so he's been of enormous assistance in that regard. We wouldn't be speaking to some of the people we're speaking to if we hadn't had him to connect them to us."

"But?" he prompted, sensing she was working up to something.

She made a pained face. "But he has a tendency to, how shall I say, disturb the general peace as well?"

"I see," was all he said, biting down on a grin. And what else could he say, really, to the Prime Minister, of all people? About a member of the Hall of Lords? About his new girlfriend's father, no less? A man for whom, by all accounts, disturbing the general peace seemed to be a personal mission? "I suppose, if you achieve the end result you want, a little disturbance along the way is a relatively small price to pay."

"A little, absolutely, yes." She let out a sigh. "I'm just concerned it might be about to become a lot."

Meaning, Solwen's dad was about to do something he shouldn't. "And why might that be the case?"

"Your Majesty, by any chance, did you listen to the speech Lord Hamelmark gave in the Hall last week? Speaking against your cousin's petition?"

As if she didn't know the answer to that question already. She must know he'd gone over the speech with a fine-toothed comb. "I did, yes."

"Unsurprisingly, Lord Hamelmark's speech has caused quite a stir in the House. Not the whole thing, obviously. But the parts of the speech where he talked about the need to reform the Hall. It's set quite a few of the more equality-minded members of my Cabinet talking."

Yes, he was quite sure it had…

Harbrand heaved a sigh. "Unfortunately, it seems the speech isn't going to be Lord Hamelmark's only contribution to the matter."

"Oh?"

"I heard through the grapevine this morning"—and by grapevine, she meant her army of spies—"that The Edoras Times is meeting with him this afternoon. An interview for Sunday's edition, to discuss what he said, delve further into the subject." She shook her head. "Bema only knows what he's going to tell them, or what angle the piece will take."

Solwen hadn't mentioned this, but maybe she hadn't known about it herself. "Nothing too provocative, I'm sure. The Times tends to take a right-of-centre view, so it's not going to condone anything too radical. And His Lordship _is_ a member of the Hall. He might want to see it reformed, but it wouldn't make any sense for him to bring it down on his own head."

Her smile was wry. "You'd think that, wouldn't you?"

Conveniently, this brought him to the very topic he'd come here to tackle. "I'd be interested to know, what are your own thoughts on the matter? The issue of reform, I mean?"

She didn't immediately answer. "It's a tricky subject, sir." By which she probably meant a subject she would rather avoid. Until she'd seen off the looming threat of a 'no confidence' vote, at least. "Change can be a very good thing, but one should always have a valid reason, I think."

"I can think of a bloody great one myself."

She blinked, caught off guard by his atypical bluntness. "And what would that be, sir?"

"I'd quite like to throw a convicted rapist out of the Hall."

"You mean, the Earl of Manarta."

"I do, yes." He took another bite of his biscuit, using the pause to choose the right words. "Prime Minister, we both know I'm a constitutional monarch, which means it's not my place to have an opinion on political matters." Not officially, at least. "Which some people would define as any matter relating to the structure and function of both the Hall and the House. But I don't see this as a political issue. I see it as a moral issue," he said. "And I think it's utterly immoral that a man who went to jail for sexually assaulting a child"—he paused to let his words sink in—"is allowed to enjoy all the legal and social privileges that come with being a member of the country's legislature."

"Did you have a solution in mind?"

Oh, boy. Did he _ever_. But what he wanted to say might be stepping over the line, so he had to seek assurances first. "You understand, what I'm about to say is just my personal opinion? And strictly off the record?" Meaning, she couldn't share it with other people. Not without jeopardising her position. "In no way does it represent any official position of the House of Eorl?"

She gave a quick nod. "Of course, sir, yes. I've always respected the mutual confidentiality of our personal meetings. Neither of us ever shares what we talk about with anyone else."

In theory, yes. He wondered if she followed the rule in practice as well. "Prime Minister, I'd like your government to consider introducing a law that would bring the Hall further into line with the House. Namely, to bar or remove membership to anyone who's been convicted of an indictable crime."

"With removal of all attendant privileges, I assume?"

"Correct."

"It would only be for the person's lifetime, of course. It shouldn't extend beyond their death. Their successor shouldn't suffer for their predecessor's offense."

"Also correct. It would be legally impossible—"

"—Under the Blameless Heredity Statute, yes."

The law which said nobody could be punished for the actions of their ancestors. A law which had saved a royal skin on several occasions. "Only the offender should be punished," he said. "And punished to the same degree as they would be if they sat in the House."

"No seat. No voting privileges. No financial benefits of any kind."

"No Privilege of Peerage," he added.

She paused halfway biting through a biscuit. "You'd want to revoke that as well?"

"I would, yes." He grabbed her pot to top up her tea; she made no move to decline. A wise choice—one should never declined a King, especially not when he was hosting you in his own home. "If you break the law, you shouldn't then be able to hide behind it."

"I'm not sure the members of the Hall would agree that's what the Privilege of Peerage is for."

"To be quite honest, Prime Minister, I don't really care what the members of the Hall think." He set the teapot down. "I only want to get rid of a man who's been convicted of an extremely serious crime. The sooner, the better."

"I have a Cabinet meeting tomorrow. Would you allow me to raise the matter with my people then?"

Which was diplomatic double-speak for 'I need to know how popular your idea is before I commit to doing anything with it'. Politicians. Such an honest, altruistic breed. Although, if he had to be elected, he might not be quite so altruistic himself. "Of course," he said. "Discuss it with your people, please. Update me at our next meeting."

"You mentioned you would like the law to apply to anyone who's been convicted of an indictable crime."

"That's correct."

"If I remember the details of the Earl of Hamelmark's speech correctly, that would currently cover three people."

He'd already checked that point himself, so he knew she was right. "The Earl of Manarta, the Earl of Alaholm and the Countess of Glenvonner. All three have been convicted of indictable crimes, so in my view, all three should have their seats and privileges suspended."

"I feel I should warn you, sir, that might not be a popular move. Especially with respect to the Earl of Alaholm. He was thirty-two when he was convicted, he's almost sixty now. It was a long time ago, he's never been anything but _deeply_ remorseful about what he did, and he's done a lot of wonderful charity work in the years since. The prevailing mood might be that he's taken his licks, doesn't deserve to be punished further."

Was everything going to be about forgiving people this week? First Lothiriel and her letter, then Solwen and her Ban, now the Earl of Alaholm and his criminal record? Just as well Colwenna wasn't here to raise a mindful eyebrow at him. "I'm sure it's nothing you and your people couldn't find a solution for," he said. "Perhaps a clause to apply it to the most serious crimes within the indictable category?"

"Like sexual assault on a minor."

He nodded. "Like sexual assault on a minor, yes. You'll forgive me if I'm not inclined to think that's something that should ever be excused." No matter how many years passed, or how much charity work the person did.

Her smile was suitably bland. "I'm sure my cabinet could figure out an agreeable solution."

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome." She finished her tea, set down her cup. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

"One other thing, yes. Something else that came up in Lord Hamelmark's speech."

"What was that?"

This was going to be an even more interesting discussion. Grinning to let her know he was joking, he said, "Should we discuss how much the government might be willing to pay me to surrender ownership of the Honours?"

"You're assuming you actually own the Honours of Rohan, sir."

"Lord Hamelmark seemed to think I do."

"Yes, but just because Lord Hamelmark said it, doesn't automatically mean it's true."

He was quite sure he could hear Solwen snorting. "Prime Minister, I do hope you're not calling His Lordship a liar."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir. But I understand he didn't have much time to write his rebuttal. It's entirely possible he may have overlooked some details. Or misunderstood a legal term." She gave a quick shrug. "No disrespect to His Lordship, of course. It's easily done."

"Perhaps we should have someone look into the matter for us? Resolve the question once and for all?"

"I was just about to suggest that, yes. My new Culture Secretary is desperate to get on with his role. This will give him something interesting to cut his teeth on."

"Excellent."

"You _do_ realize, sir, that even if the investigation proves you actually own the Honours, there's absolutely _zero_ chance the government could afford to buy them from you? Or even to rent them from you, for that matter?"

A sensible line to lay down, and one he was glad she'd laid down—the government had better things to spend a billion pounds on than a bunch of baubles and jewels. Like the new plan for the March, for one. But he couldn't resist a final tease. "Not even if I offered to rent them to you at a discount rate?"

"It would have to be rather a hefty discount, sir." With another bland smile, she added, "And you would still have to deal with storage and insurance yourself."

Storage wouldn't be a problem—the Honours would just stay in the vault—but insurance was another matter. Which company could they even call? And how much would the premiums be? The whole thing was a headache he just didn't need; he didn't even _want_ to own them. "Perhaps I should simply gift the Honours to the nation. Add them to the Royal Collection, give them the same inalienable legal status as the royal residences."

"So, the House of Eorl would retain the right to use them, but wouldn't own them, and couldn't dispose of them," she concluded.

"Precisely."

"That seems a logical solution to me." Another smile, this time with a slightly daring edge. "Perhaps we could even arrange to put them out on display? Let the people of Rohan see them for once?"

He wasn't at all opposed to that idea. He might not want to own the Honours, but he shouldn't be the only person who had the ability to see them. "Just not at the palace," he added. "With all due respect, I'd rather not have the people of Rohan traipsing through my dining room while I'm trying to drink my morning tea."

"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind, sir," she said, in a tone that made him think that was _exactly_ where she'd been going.

Politicians. You really couldn't trust a damn thing they did, or believe a damn thing they said...

"Good." He finished his coffee. "I'll leave the matter for you and your Culture Secretary to deal with from here. We can discuss it further when we meet again."


End file.
